


The Making of a Con Man

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Deceptions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escapes, Escorts, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Lies, Multi, Prison, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17205368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This multi-chapter story is really more of an anthology chronicling Neal Caffrey’s life from a young age until he reaches adulthood. You will see the making of a con man during the upcoming pages. You will also come to realize that many different people played a part in the ultimate creation of that persona. They were the sculptors who shaped and molded him until, ultimately, one man emerged during the saga and became the true defining force in Neal’s world. At that point, the unanswered question would be whether what had been previously chiseled in granite could be altered.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of follows the original premise of the show, but has been fictionally expanded. I’ve added a lot of information and people along the way, and I hope you’ll give it a chance.

When Neal wakes, it is still dark outside. He looks at the Mickey Mouse clock on the small table beside his twin bed and realizes that it is not yet six am. The funky little timepiece had been a gift from Ellen on his last birthday. He had turned six-years-old that day, and Ellen told him that he was very smart and could learn to tell time. The woman had been right, as she was about so many other things in a young child’s life. She was also patient and kind and tried to give meaningful explanations delivered in a vernacular that a small, confused boy could comprehend.

Neal slithered out of bed and shivered as he rummaged in his dresser to find clean clothes that he could wear. His mother’s bedroom door was still closed as he grabbed an Oreo cookie, slipped his matchstick arms through the straps of his backpack, and trudged through several inches of new snow on his way to the bus stop down the street. Apparently, he was a bit early, so he whiled away the time making frigid, crunchy snowballs that he lofted at the street sign on the corner. After a half hour, Neal had trouble feeling his toes in his wet tennis shoes. He had rubber boots somewhere in the apartment, but he hadn’t had the inclination to put them on. They were clunky and ugly, and he really hated wearing them in front of his first-grade classmates who already had enough ammunition to use against him. They always made fun of his Goodwill clothes—the pants that were too short and the sweatshirts with holes in the elbows and tattered ribbing at the neck.

By now, morning light began trying to filter its way through a sodden grey cloud mass. A few vehicles carefully inched their way down the thoroughfare not yet plowed or treated with a de-icing chemical. One car pulled up at the stop sign and a pretty lady powered down her window. “Maybe your mother didn’t know, Sweetie, but school was cancelled today because of this awful weather,” she told him.

“Oh,” was Neal’s brief response.

The young woman in the car hesitated for just a second. “Listen, Honey, I know your mother probably told you never to get in the car with strangers. I tell that to my own daughter, too,” the woman added as she pointed to a small child seated behind her that Neal had failed to notice. “I’m taking Susan to a sitter so that I can get to work. I promise that I’ll drive you home right after I drop her off. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“No, thank you,” Neal mumbled. “I can walk home by myself.” He definitely wasn’t afraid, and no, his mother had never told him to be leery of strangers. There was really just so much she had never told him, starting with the fact that school had been cancelled today. But then, how could she have known? With a child’s innate intuitiveness, Neal realized his mother was experiencing one of her bad periods. That’s how Ellen always referred to them. Neal preferred to call them his Mom’s “sad” days, which meant she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. Nothing that Neal did ever pulled her from her funk; it simply had to run its course, and the timeframes varied.

Neglected children like Neal learned early on how to be self-sufficient. He was very careful when using the stove, and had even mastered the coin laundromat down the street so that he and his mother always had clean clothes. There were some snags, however. Sometimes, there wasn’t enough cash to pay for groceries, so a clever child learned how to shoplift foodstuffs, a little at a time, from various grocery stores. Was it really stealing if you needed to take things in order not to go hungry? That was yet another question Neal’s mother never clarified. Could that be because he never told her about those embarrassing and sinful forays? Neal instinctively knew he shouldn’t ask Ellen.

Once back home, Neal stripped off his wet socks and shoes and rolled up his pant legs so he wouldn’t feel the wet clamminess against his ankles and shins. He then dared to peak into the darkness of his mother’s bedroom, seeing her curled into a fetal position with her arms protectively hugging her ribcage. How Neal wished he could make her whole again and see her smile.

From somewhere deep within his cache of vague memories, Neal remembered an adult man telling him that you couldn’t start a day off properly without a strong cup of coffee. Neal wondered if that phantom had been his father, the heroic policeman who had sacrificed his life for all the right reasons. Neal should have been proud of him, so sometimes a small boy couldn’t understand why he was often mad at the man who had abruptly left before clearly being imprinted on his son’s psyche. Many times, Neal would stare at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. His mother had always told him that his father was the blue in his eyes. But a young boy wondered if they shared the same high cheekbones or the finely chiseled chin. Neal would study his hands and wonder if they would grow into facsimiles of the man's hands who had helped create him? There were just so many unanswered questions.

Neal tiptoed back to the kitchen and ran the tap until the water was as hot as his fingers could stand. He filled a mug and carefully added a teaspoon full of instant coffee granules, a bit of sugar, and a splash of milk. Even though he continued to vigorously stir the concoction, not all of the little dark crystals of coffee dissolved, so he used the back of the spoon to smash them against the sides of the earthenware cup. Being careful not to spill the contents, he slowly made his way to his Mom’s bedroom. He touched her shoulder gently until she mumbled a sleepy, “Not now, Danny. Mama’s tired,” without ever opening her eyes. The child placed his offering on the night table and withdrew as quietly as a shadow.

Neal remembered the first time his mother had called him “Danny.” During those early misty days, he had thought it was a game, like pretending to be Clark Kent instead of Superman, or Bruce Banner instead of the Hulk. But the game never ended because both his mother and Ellen made it very clear that he was never going to be Neal Bennett again. That made a serious young child wonder what he had done wrong so that he had to suddenly become somebody else. Was it like being granted a do-over because you messed up the first time? Of course, nobody ever explained it. They just took it for granted that he would obey, and he did because, above all else, Neal wanted to please the people whom he loved and, maybe, more importantly, have them love him in return.

~~~~~~~~~~

By his pre-adolescent years, Neal had a new-focused whimsy—the intriguing world of magic. He had seen a documentary on television about the master magician, Harry Houdini, and he was hooked. The young boy read every book in the library about the mysterious legend and his secrets, and longed to try his own hand at creating a world of illusion to replace the harsh and unforgiving real one that he inhabited. He innocently asked for a magic set for Christmas when he was ten, and Ellen indulged him, thinking it was a harmless phase that Neal would eventually outgrow. The unsuspecting woman never knew it was a defining moment in the creation of a con man.

Neal worked diligently to perfect sleight of hand, and his small fingers became quick and sure. He routinely outfoxed derelicts and tough guys on street corners, managing to snag their last dollars in “Find the Lady” schemes. Other, more affluent customers, didn’t even feel the urchin lift their billfolds or money clips as he stared up at them with wide innocent eyes. The thick wads of cash kept food on the table and afforded him a more appealing wardrobe of new t-shirts and athletic footwear. He even bought his mother a small gold-plated locket for her birthday. Sadly, Neal’s picture never made it into that tiny heart, but that was okay—really, it was no big deal, he told himself, quickly hiding his disappointment behind a charming smile.

By his teen years, Neal was morphing into a new person, a suave Danny Brooks that he was creating by shaping raw clay into an allusion. He was like a chimera—a fantasy that people perceived in their own personal way, and that’s what Neal took advantage of time after time. He would be what they wanted him to be to further his own agenda down the road. Did that make him a sociopath, Neal often wondered? He really thought that he was capable of empathy, but maybe he was justifying a criminal nature as yet in its infancy. When did Jeffrey Dahmer or John Wayne Gacy begin to experience the cravings that made them into vicious serial killers? Neal decided that he didn’t want to think too long and hard about the profound conundrum that had become his life. But, sometimes he did wonder who lived beneath his skin. Was it Neal or Danny who was wending along the stream of life?

High school was a fortuitous time for Neal because the grunge look was in and the young misfit now personified a teen rebel rather than a raggedy orphan. It certainly didn’t hurt that the juvenile roundness in his face had faded into sharp, handsome planes, and his lanky body was also in the process of filling out thanks to a steadfast regimen of sports. Neal was quite athletic, and he easily made the track team with his quickness and endurance. He felt as if he could run forever when the endorphins kicked in and his feet were automatically keeping up the punishing pace. When he was running, he didn’t have to think. He could just revel in the adrenalin rush of the moment.

There was one element in his world that he didn’t have to run from, and that was the bevy of young girls who dogged his steps. They were enamored of his looks and his quick and charming wit. He was fancifully artistic, and they giggled and tittered behind their hands when he created silly caricatures of the teachers. They quickly fell helplessly in love when he tenderly presented them with beautiful cameo portraits of themselves. His Saturday nights were never lonely, but not one of his admirers ever made it home to meet the young Lothario’s mother.

During one of her infrequent visits, Ellen saw the handwriting on the wall and decided the time was right to have “The Talk” with Neal. She was pretty certain that the boy’s mother had never stepped up to the plate to fill in the information that should have come from a boy’s father. Male teenagers were one hot mess of testosterone, and Ellen tried her best to broach the subject of sexual encounters and prudent protection as unemotionally as possible. She hadn’t gotten very far in her lecture when she realized, with a deep sense of regret, that Neal was simply being polite by enduring her analytical approach. She was probably years too late with her admonitions. Nevertheless, she soldiered on.

“I’m sure that you are very well versed in what you think are all the important aspects regarding the opposite sex,” she began sternly. “You may know the mechanics, but let me be the first to tell you that a romantic liaison isn’t some walk in the park, young man. Women are complex creatures, and you’ll find yourself learning that in the years down the road. You have to tread lightly and be gentle with them.”

“I’m nice to girls, Ellen, and I think I understand what they want from me,” Neal protested. “In fact, I love females in all shapes and sizes, and I do my best to keep them happy.”

“What you need to do is _respect_ them,” Ellen stressed. “Never take advantage of their exposed feelings or mercilessly wound them emotionally. That would be very cruel, and I know you are not a cruel person. I know you have a good heart, and although you may not do it intentionally, it could happen, so you must always be on guard against hurting an innocent soul who dares to love you. Can you promise me that, Danny?”

“I’m not a callous jerk, Ellen,” Neal said in his own defense. “I would never cause pain to a woman in any way, shape, or form. You have my word on that.”

And Neal kept his word throughout the rest of his life. He actually tended to place his paramours high up on pedestals where he worshipped them like goddess. As time went on, he became the perfect gallant gentleman, and, quite often, he was the one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Little did he know that vulnerability would be his ultimate downfall in the years to come.

When Neal was almost ready to graduate from high school, Ellen materialized into his life again. This time she would address the young boy as “Neal” for the first time since he was barely a toddler, and her words set him on what was to become a destructive path. He felt angry and betrayed as he realized his whole life had been one long con. They had duped him from the very beginning and he never had a clue. A disillusioned boy vowed it would never happen again because he was going to be the master of his own fate. He suddenly felt self-righteous, and maybe even a pang of hatred for his father’s cowardly abandonment. He definitely wasn’t happy with his mother and Ellen for their part in the deceit. They had kept the truth from him, and he couldn’t run away from them and his angst fast enough.

~~~~~~~~~~

A newly christened “Neal” took the first bus out of St. Louis and didn’t stop until he eventually came face to face with the Atlantic Ocean on the East Coast of the continent. During the long hours of travel, he let his mind ponder something his high school class had debated in psych. Did a person become who they were because of nature or nurture? Neal wasn’t sure at this juncture in his life which facet was the dominant force. His father was a killer, callously using a gun to solve his problem rather than depending on his wits. Neal couldn’t get on board with that extreme measure. There was always another way if you were smart enough to figure it out. Neal made another vow as the ribbon of highway unfurled in front of the Greyhound bus. He would never resort to weapons or violence to further his own agenda. That was just too barbarian for his tastes.

When Neal examined the other side of the equation, it was difficult to interpret the word “nurture”  in any meaningful connotation regarding his upbringing. Most of the time, he had “nurtured” himself, and done so quite well, thank you very much. He was savvy, self-sufficient, and creative. He didn’t need anybody coddling him or holding his hand. He was an island who could survive because he was strong. New York City put that claim to the test.


	2. A New Normal

Neal spent the first several weeks crammed into a youth hostel in a sketchy part of his new city. He walked around day after day trying to get acclimated, finally understanding Manhattan’s bustling grids that stretched over thirteen miles sandwiched between the Hudson and the East Rivers. He was fascinated by the glitz and glamor, gazing up at magnificent brownstones and promising himself that one day he would be clever enough to find a niche in one. He was a quick study and ferreted out where slick people sold false IDs. Apparently, anything could be gotten for the right price, and, after a few pickpocketing forays in Times Square, the next phase of his metamorphosis began. A driver’s license with his face proclaimed him to be “Neal Caffrey,” a young man deemed to be five years older than the actual person depicted in the postage stamp-size photo. A determined teenager was now on his way to a different and better life far from the lies and deception that had made his previous existence a mockery.

Official-looking credentials in hand, Neal next sought some sort of job to support himself. The opportunities were slim for the baby-faced skinny kid from the Midwest until another down-on-his-luck hostel denizen named Geoffrey made a suggestion. The guy had actually been making subtle sexual overtures towards Neal, but finally gave up when the object of his intentions clearly wasn’t interested in hooking up.

“Look, dude, you’ve got the face and the body to get ahead in this town,” Neal’s erstwhile admirer proclaimed. “You just need to make yourself available to the right people. It’s all about connections, you know, and there’s an agency located on Lexington that could set you up in a real sweet place. I got the juice to get you a foot in the door if you’re interested. Me and the owner have a history.”

“Are you talking about being a male prostitute?” Neal asked with an edge in his voice.

“The job is all about what you make it,” was the nebulous answer.  “If servicing needy women or men isn’t your thing, you should make that clear from the get-go if I can manage to get you an interview. But let me warn you, that stupid attitude will definitely limit your future potential, so you may want to rethink those high and mighty moral standards, pretty boy. In the real world, you need to go along in order to get along.”

“Why would you be offering to help me?” Neal asked suspiciously. “What’s in it for you?”

“Let’s just say I’m like a talent scout,” Geoffrey replied smugly. “If I send this agency a new prospective hire, I get a commission. Look, man, we’re both down on our luck right now and hungry, so this could benefit both of us.”

“Don’t count your chickens just yet, buddy,” Neal replied. “I’m not sure this is my thing.”

Despite his misgivings, Neal was between a rock and a hard place at the moment, so he allowed himself to be swept along with the idea. After Geoffrey had managed to work some kind of deal, an unsure young neophyte found himself at an upscale office decked out with tons of chrome and glass as well as an abundance of lush ferns suspended from the ceiling. An efficient secretary quickly led him into a room with a panoramic view of the New York skyline where a chicly dressed woman named Elyse Harrington looked up curiously before beginning to laugh.

“How old are you kid—seventeen, eighteen?” she asked haughtily.

“I’m actually twenty-three, ma’am,” Neal lied confidently, bravely hiding his mortification.

“I don’t think so,” she taunted. “Do you even know how to use a razor yet, Sonny?”

Neal decided that he didn’t have to endure this disrespect, so he began backing out of the space. “Maybe I’ll just be going,” he replied flippantly. “Obviously, this was all a mistake on my part and I wouldn’t want to waste any of your valuable time.”

“Touchy, touchy,” the woman mocked. “Are you really going to give up that easily? Geoffrey spoke so highly of you that I suppose I was expecting a little more gumption and tenaciousness.”

“And I thought you were looking for a willing young escort, not some Madison Avenue adman hawking a sales pitch,” Neal countered boldly.

“Oh, Sweetie, to be honest, you look more like the latest addition to some boy band,” she teased as she took in his well-worn jeans and faded Henley. “I’m going to venture a guess this might be a new experience for you. Am I wrong?”

“I have experience with women,” Neal bragged, although he thought romancing high school cheerleaders might be pushing the envelope a bit. “Are you really expecting me to provide an in-depth resume with references?” he quipped.

“Well, at least you can think on your feet,” Ms. Harrington retorted, “I’ll give you points for that. You may have potential, but it just needs spiffing up a bit. Do you even own a suit and know how to tie a Windsor knot? Our clientele are wealthy and discerning, and they expect their escorts to be gentlemen who know how to conduct themselves in a patrician manner rather than be an embarrassment when seen in public. Let me phrase it another way. There’s an appropriate quote attributed to novelist Anais Nin which may put things into perspective regarding our patrons. Their mindset is, ‘ _We see things as we are, not as they are.’_ Do you understand now?”

Neal thought he did understand the implied message. He was going to have to be a chameleon if he wanted this gig. “Sure, I get it,” he assured his potential employer. “I’ll be like an actor playing a part. I can pull that off easily enough. I’ve been pretending to be somebody else my whole life.”

“No, I really don’t think you do ‘ _get_ ’ it,” Ms. Harrington informed a brash young man with an attitude. “You won’t just be playing a role. You have to become that person, live in his skin day after day, and truly believe the entity you’ve become is real in every sense of the word. If you don’t sustain that faith in your persona, then others will sense the sham and intuit all its duplicity. You must really be the man you want to be and convince others of your worth.”

Neal concealed his embarrassment at the put down. “To be honest, Ms. Harrington, this is not exactly the type of job interview I was expecting.”

The woman laughed again, condescendingly as before. “Just what did you think was going to happen, Neal? Were you simply surmising that I would ask you to unzip so that I could view the package you’re offering?”

Neal didn’t have an appropriate answer for that, at least not one he was willing to say out loud.

After a beat, the owner of this company took pity on him. “Look, my aspiring young cocksman, you may give off the vibe of a wide-eyed, naïve choir boy, and that’s very precious and may work for some. However, I am not just ‘some’ people. Convince me that you are so much more than just another pretty face. Come back for a second interview in one week at precisely 6 pm looking like I’d allow you to escort me to the opera.”

“I’ll be here,” Neal assured her, suddenly feeling the need to prove himself to this snooty woman. He wasn’t quite sure why that was so important.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal began to implement his strategy the next afternoon. He saw a tour bus with Pennsylvania license plates pull over to the curb on 49th Street so that a steady stream of excited visitors to the Big Apple could climb down and find their way to Broadway matinees and iconic landmarks within the city. He shadowed these unsuspecting gawkers and managed to lift a Visa, a Mastercard, and one American Express card from a few male pockets.  Now it was showtime for him. He quickly hoofed it uptown to the upscale Tom Ford men’s boutique on Madison Avenue and began perusing formal wear appropriate for a night on the town with a very discriminating taskmaster. An obsequious salesman was quickly at his elbow and helped him select a sleek tux with a price tag in the four figure range. When Neal tried it on in the dressing area, he thought that he suddenly looked older instead of a kid playing dress up in a costume.

“Very nice, Sir,” the salesman purred in approval, “elegant without being ostentatious. I think it will be perfect with just a few slight alterations. If I may be so bold, I would suggest that we have our private, on-site tailor take a look. Elias is a master craftsman when it comes to tweaking stylish apparel.”

“I was hoping to leave with this today,” Neal said uncertainly. “You see, I’m in sort of a time-crunch.” What the young man really meant was that he had to make the purchase as well as his getaway before the American Express card was discovered missing.

“Certainly, Sir, that’s not a problem, and I understand perfectly,” he was assured. “Of course, there will be a slight upcharge for the rush order. I’m sure you can appreciate our policy.”

“Of course,” Neal echoed the man’s words.

Elias, the purported clothing guru, turned out to be a really hyperactive little gnome who scurried around with a piece of tailor’s chalk in his hand while Neal turned this way and that as he stood on an upraised platform. He was measuring Neal’s inseam when he actually said his first words.

“To which side do you dress, Sir?” he asked innocently as his hands hovered perilously close to the customer’s crotch.

When an uncomfortable Neal sent him a confused look, the small man sought to clarify his question. “When you put on your trousers, Sir, which side is more comfortable when you situate yourself into the garment. Perhaps it isn’t much of an issue now because you’re wearing boxer shorts, but perhaps you may want to go with silk briefs when wearing this tuxedo because it is meant to be quite form fitting.”

Neal hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Point taken, and I’ll attend to that detail today. And it’s to the left,” he hastily added.

“Very good, Sir,” was the short nonjudgmental reply.

Within the hour, Neal left with his new tuxedo in a garment bag along with a few extra shirts and ties. Next stop was just down the street at Florsheim’s for shiny leather dress shoes, and lastly, Tiffany’s to  purchase gold cufflinks for the French cuffs on his new shirts. He had spread the wealth around, utilizing credit from Visa and Mastercard respectively.

Two days before his next audition with Ms. Harrington, Neal cashed a bogus check at a New York bank and added new undergarments to his cache. He also went to a ritzy salon on the Upper West Side to have his thick mop of hair professionally cut and artfully styled. On Saturday, he patiently stood in the vestibule of the building on Lexington until exactly one minute before 6 pm when he rang the buzzer of the Harrington Agency. He was surprised when the owner was the one to open the door dressed in a clingy red sheath that showed off her curves magnificently. The previous girl Friday was nowhere to be seen.

“Well, aren’t you just adorable,” Elyse Harrington said drolly as she looked Neal up and down.

“Is that really a passive-aggressive comment just oozing with subtle condescension?” Neal asked snidely. Maybe he really didn’t want to play this woman’s game after all.

“Simmer down, my sensitive young stud,” she replied with what passed for a possible genuine smile. “I’m really not some dragon lady. I actually do have your best interests at heart, dear one. Now hold my wrap for me,” she commanded as she slipped her arms into a soft cashmere tunic. When the elevator reached the ground floor, the concierge led the way over to a waiting limousine. After a short jaunt, the driver hopped out and opened the door with a flourish outside of “The Palm” restaurant on West 50th Street. Apparently, Ms. Harrington was a regular at the establishment because she was quickly escorted to what the maître d **'** termed her “usual” table. When a sommelier hastily came on the scene, she was the one to order.

“I’ll have a Kir Royale and my friend will have a McCallum Scotch on the rocks. During dinner, I believe we’ll have a bottle of that 2012 Chateau Lafleur Bordeaux that I so love if there are any more bottles of that ambrosia left in your dusty wine cellar, Clarence,” she said regally.

“Of course, Madam, we always keep some of our private reserve wines for discriminating clients such as yourself.” It seemed as if Clarence was playing his part to the hilt to ensure a generous tip.

After the aperitifs had arrived, Neal’s second audition began in earnest.

“Tell me all you know about Brexit,” Harrington commanded like a schoolmarm.

Neal managed to keep up with current events, so this was an easy question. “Brexit refers to The United Kingdom’s 2016 decision to withdraw from the European Union. That complete withdrawal is imminent, actually set to occur in March of 2019, and there is a broad consensus among economists that Brexit will likely reduce the UK’s real per capita income in the medium and long term even though it will probably reduce immigration from European countries.”

“A+,” Harrington murmured with a smile as she cut off any more discussion on the subject. “Now tell me all you know about Edouard Manet, and please don’t bore me with waterlilies.”

“Well, Claude _Monet_ was a French painter who initiated the movement known as Impressionism, and he was the artist most noted for his prolific landscapes in the French countryside of Giverny. That is thought to be where he first began painting waterlily scenes. Now, Edouard _Manet_ , on the other hand, was also a French Impressionist who preferred to depict everyday scenes of people going about their way in the city. He actually transitioned from Realism to Impressionism later in his career.”

“Well, aren’t you the clever one,” Elyse Harrington enthused. “Last question—tell me about Wagner’s work, _Parsifal_. That’s the three-act opera we’ll be enjoying tonight at the Met.”

Now Neal had hit a brick wall and tried to be charmingly whimsical. “Can I change categories, Alex, and switch from German Musical Compositions to Current Affairs for $200?”

Elyse Harrington was suddenly frowning and shaking her head sadly like a teacher disappointed with a promising student. “Shame on you, Neal. I told you that we would be attending the opera, so you should have come prepared, at least so that you could offer something halfway profound during a conversation.”

Neal sighed dramatically. “So I guess uttering little superlative words like divinely inspiring or powerfully reflective aren’t gonna cut it.”

“Not by a long shot, Baby,” Elyse agreed.  “Neal, you have to be the whole package and not some boy toy, Ken doll cutout lacking an iota of cultural ingenuity. You can not wing it and expect that someone won’t call you out for it. You must always be prepared, and that means doing your homework about each and every assignment. Know their backgrounds, their likes and dislikes, and their overall attitude about almost everything. The key to success is fitting into their world like you were born to it. If they’re erudite intellectuals, then prove that you have a clever brain in your head as well, but never be too smart that you intimidate or challenge them. If they are pretentious bores, then deferentially suck it up and hang on their every word like they are wise oracles in their cloistered little circle. That’s the key to gaining their trust and being a success in our kind of world.”

“My bad,” Neal said softly. “Did I flunk out of school tonight?”

“We’re still going to the opera, my young friend, and there _will_ be a quiz afterwards,” Ms. Harrington said ominously.

Neal dutifully suffered through the Teutonic extravaganza without fidgeting overly much, and he was able to spit out all the right answers afterwards to his mentor’s satisfaction. The limo was now idling outside the youth hostel with the vehicle’s exhaust causing little clouds of fog to engulf the windows. The thick partition between the driver and the passengers remained firmly in place as Elyse Harrington turned to the young man beside her.

“I’m willing to take a chance on you, Neal,” she began, “and I think your first assignments will be as a walker. That just means you will be eye candy accompanying some ancient doyennes to social events and you most likely won’t be expected to stay the night with them afterwards. Those old biddies just like to make their contemporaries turn green with envy, and it’s a bit of one-upmanship on the geriatric blueblood circuit. I’m not saying that’s a hard and fast rule. Some of those frisky menopausal gals may want to teach you a trick or two in the sack, so just go with the flow.”

“Okay,” Neal said softly. “I guess I can do that.” 

“Now, let me lay out the ground rules. You must be on call every weekend in case I have an assignment for you. I’ll tell you in advance who your date is going to be and what kind of function you will be attending. After that, it’s up to you to get into character. You’ll need a proper wardrobe, so I’ll advance you some money to attend to that matter. The amount will be subtracted from your wages, a little at a time, until I’m reimbursed for the monetary outlay of capital. If your performance is satisfactory, you will be compensated accordingly, and if I’m pleased with the feedback, I am rather generous. You may take a social drink during your dates, but drunkenness and drug use will not be tolerated. If it happens, you are out on your ass. You will agree to unannounced drug screenings as well as bi-monthly bloods tests and cultures to find any sexually transmitted diseases or HIV. I would strongly advise the use of condoms, especially if your date is a man.”

This time Neal had no response, so Harrington eyed him sharply before delivering her warning. “Being an escort has a shelf life, Neal. It’s possible to burn out early with all the alluring temptations that may come your way. Geoffrey found that out the hard way. He developed a taste for coke. It started out in a rock star’s penthouse. Just a little pick me up sprinkled on a mirror with a crisp $1000 bill to get it up his nose. Now he’s acquired a habit he can’t satisfy, and the current quality of his poison may put him in an early grave. He was once a beautiful young man with a future, and I actually liked him. Now he’s a cautionary tale. I am assuming he lives in that rundown establishment across the street, and that’s where you met him.”

Neal just nodded mutely.

“Well, use your first paycheck to relocate to a better neighborhood,” Harrington cautioned. “I’ll be in touch.”

And Elyse Harrington was as good as her word. On the following Thursday, Neal received a call from her. “This coming Saturday evening you will be escorting a crochety old crone to the Dali opening at the Guggenheim. Her name is Lydia Edwards, and she’s challenging, to say the least. She’s deaf as a post but that doesn’t stop her from loudly informing everybody within decibel range that her ancestors came over on the Mayflower and she holds a membership in the DAR. The real truth is her granddaddy was a robber baron who made his fortune in bootlegging during Prohibition, but that’s definitely not the story she tells over and over. She gives tons of money to the local art museums, and Salvador Dali is her latest passion. She claims she actually met the mad, old charlatan in Spain when she was a girl. That might just be a senile flight of fancy, but I guess anything’s possible,” Elyse mused thoughtfully.

“I’m on it,” Neal promised. He set off to the library the next day to bone up on the controversial painter who may have been a Barnum and Bailey type of con artist himself.

The evening actually went pretty well. Ms. Edwards asked her young escort no questions because she was too busy yakking away and repeating her outrageous stories over and over. Neal pretended the woman was his sweet but quirky grandmother and plastered an indulgent gentle smile on his face while gleaning sympathetic glances sent his way by other patrons. He congratulated himself on being a halfway decent con man after the evening was over, and was determined to finetune and perfect his craft so that he could become the best.


	3. The Road Not Taken

Over the following months, Neal became a favorite among the wealthy and well-connected female population comprising New York’s elite social circle. His services were always in demand, and he usually had dates at least four times a week. The key to his monumental success was that Neal had come to understand women, and he truly loved them in his own way. That allowed him to provide exactly what they desired, be it in a rumpled bed or out in the highbrow, uptown world. He had hit on the answer to one of life’s great mysteries—“What do women really want?”

Neal was smart and he figured out that a woman’s most erogenous zone was nestled deep inside her brain rather than along the sensual aspects of her body. That’s where she first began to make love. If he could get into women’s heads, he could make them deliriously happy and contented. All that entailed was encouraging them to believe they were interesting and desirable so that they could perceive their true value and claim their worth. Validation was what women really wanted. So, he tamped down their insecurities regarding their aging bodies and the errant wrinkles that eluded Botox. For him, they were all beautiful, fascinating, and wonderous creations with much to offer. He really was sincere, and his dates felt that earnestness and finally allowed themselves to be fulfilled and more confident in every aspect of their lives.

“He makes me picture myself as young and alive again,” a matron gushed to Elyse Harrington, “not like I’m some washed-up old hag with sagging breasts and a low hanging butt. He’s patient and kind, and I’m having the best orgasms of my life!”

Another satisfied customer actually blushed when she offered her own admission. “I don’t feel like I have to dim the lights and get all coy undressing in front of Neal. It doesn’t matter what the outside of my body looks like because he made me realize how beautiful I am on the inside. He really listens to me and we have the most marvelous discussions about almost everything. I never have to worry about feeling like what I say is insipid or stupid.”

And probably the most poignant comment was from a shy widow. “He makes me feel valued as a person, and, thanks to that dear boy, I’ve come to really like myself for the first time in my life.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Bravo!” Elyse Harrington extolled her pleasure one afternoon when Neal came to pick up his paycheck. “I wish I could bottle and sell you like a magic ‘Fountain of Youth’ elixir.”

“That might be construed as objectifying me,” Neal complained good-naturedly. “Perhaps I should sue for  gender stereo-typing in the workplace as well as a blatant misuse of an employer’s power over one of her worker bees.”

“I’m making you wealthy, Mr. Svengali, so stop complaining,” Elyse Harrington smirked. “Did you finally make a move Uptown?”

“I’ve got a little hole-in-the-wall apartment on the Lower East Side, and that’s really all I need for now,” Neal answered.

Neal wasn’t joking when he described his new digs. They really were quite spartan and lacking any frills, but the apartment met his requirements for the moment. He now had plenty of space to set up easels, racks of brushes, and stacks of messy palettes so that he could indulge an old passion. The lone window in the living room provided a northern exposure, optimal for painting because northern light basks an artist’s subject matter in a type of cool aura. This helps the creator to have far greater control over values and contrasts, and even enhances subtle color changes within a painting. Neal remembered reading that the great master, Johannes Vermeer, made sure that he always worked in a northern-lit studio. That revered Dutch Golden Age painter was actually one of the young man’s favorites. The current work on Neal’s easel was a copy of the man’s well-known work, “Girl With a Pearl Earring,” currently residing on a museum wall in the Netherlands. Maybe one day Neal would get to view it in person to see how accurate his own creation was.

Neal was also a type of Renaissance Man, interested in many esoteric things and always experimenting. There was a folding table that did double duty as an eating area as well as a type of workbench. It was there that he tried replicating odd bits and pieces—collector edition postage stamps and bank bearer bonds, to name just a few. He was learning how to properly age inks and papers to create very passable forgeries which might come in handy someday if he found himself in a bind. For now, they were back burner stuff—just a fun hobby to while away his free time.

Even though he was comfortable for the moment, Neal was the first to admit that his current life was not really what he envisioned for himself. Nevertheless, it was the temporary road that he had taken. He really couldn’t complain about his night job. It was easy, interesting, and certainly enjoyable. Neal really did like to make people happy, something he had never managed to accomplish with his mother. But that part of his life was something he couldn’t change; it was over and done and there was no room for regrets. Right now, he was content with his ladies of the night. Then, one afternoon, Elyse Harrington threw him a curve ball.

“I have an assignment that will be a bit different for you,” she began slowly as she leaned back in her office chair and studied Neal intently. “This Saturday I’ve arranged a date for you over on Central Park West. It will be an in-house visit and you won’t be expected to shepherd anybody around the town.”

“Okay, who’s the client?” Neal asked hesitantly, intuiting there was more to this than met the eye.

“The gentleman’s name is Alistair Randall,”  Elyse intoned solemnly, “and he’s a past appointed Governor of the Federal Reserve Board. That was all a while ago when he lived in Washington DC. He held that lofty position for fourteen years before returning to New York for retirement. However, his wife passed away very soon after the relocation.”

Neal realized that his boss was watching for his reaction, so he managed a placid expression. “I’m curious, Elyse. If something is humming along smoothly, why would you want to tinker with it? You know I’m a ladies man, and I’d most assuredly be a fumbling idiot around a male client. Surely, you have other more experienced male employees on staff who could handle the situation a whole lot better than I could.”

“I sincerely hope you’re not homophobic, Neal,” Ms. Harrington responded with a frown.

“Of course not,” Neal answered vehemently. “I just think I’m better at playing to my strengths.”

“Your strengths and your discretion are exactly what I want in this instance. You see, this is a very special case,” Elyse explained.

“Why, because he’s some big time banker?” Neal wanted to know.

“No, it’s not that. It’s special as well as a little sensitive because this will be his first time with a man,” she answered quietly.

That stymied Neal for a second. “So, he’s _'special' s_ imply because he’s going through some midlife crisis and is afraid he might have missed out on a new arcane experience?”

“I think any midlife crisis is a thing of the past for this gentleman. He’s almost seventy years old,” Elyse enlightened her employee.

“Wow,” Neal managed to whisper. “It sure took him long enough to step into the light.”

“It’s really not so strange, young man," Elyse argued. "Mr. Randall grew up in a different, less tolerant generation. He was also deeply entrenched in a social strata that would have made him a pariah if his true nature was known. So, he led the life that was mapped out for him—married the appropriate woman, fathered a child, and pretended to be somebody else instead of who he was meant to be for almost his entire existence. I personally find that very sad.”

“It sounds as if he may still be on the fence,” Neal made an observation. “If we’re not to be seen in public, then he’s not totally committed to a truth which may not even be his own personal truth. Maybe he’s still trying to figure it out, even at this late date.”

“Yes, he may be conflicted,” Elyse agreed. “That’s why you’re the perfect person for this job. You have a gentle way about you, Neal, that puts people at ease so they begin to trust you. Perhaps, in time, Mr. Randall will feel secure enough to trust his instincts, as well, or to at least recognize and validate if they exist. Think of yourself as a therapist—get your patient to face his perceived demons and to move forward in whatever direction feels right for him. Help him choose a road to take in that easy, nonjudgmental way of yours, and make him comfortable with that choice.”

Neal shot Ms. Harrington a droll look. “May I just say that you really know how to pile on the pressure, Elyse. I’d sound like an insensitive Neanderthal cretin if I kept finding excuses to get out of this.”

“So, you’ll do it?” she asked hopefully.

“Are you saying I have a choice?” Neal look puzzled. “You’ve never given me options about dates before, so this is a first.”

Ms. Harrington smiled. “I’ve come to respect you, Sweetheart, so I’ll cut you some slack on this one. Don’t tell anybody, but you’re Mama’s favorite.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal riffled through the clothes in his closet early Saturday evening. Exactly how did you dress to meet a banker? Was a pin-striped suit and rep tie the way to go, or perhaps city casual was the ticket? It wasn’t like they were actually going anywhere. Neal considered this to be more of a “meet and greet” opportunity rather than a seduction. He was simply going to try to assist this old dude through an identity crisis. Eventually, he decided on conservative charcoal slacks, a light blue open-neck shirt, and a navy blazer. He cabbed it Uptown and rang the doorbell of a four-story Beaux-Arts mansion on the Upper West Side at exactly 8 pm. He could hear the door chimes reverberating behind a set of massive mahogany doors, but it took quite some time before he heard a vague shuffling from within. When one of the doors finally eased back, Neal came face to face with a rail-thin, mature gentleman dressed in an old-fashioned button-up cardigan adorned with a pair of eyeglasses suspended on a cord around his neck. He had a full head of silver hair and deep-set brown eyes. Neal gazed at him expectantly and extended his hand.

“My name is Neal Caffrey, Sir, and if you are Mr. Alistair Randall then I believe you may have arranged with Elyse Harrington for me to stop by tonight.”

The man stood completely still and didn’t respond, so Neal began to wonder if he was at the right place at the correct time. He finally let his unshaken hand fall to his side and then cocked his head in confusion. “Perhaps I have the wrong address, and I’m sorry to have troubled you, Sir.” However, before Neal could back away, he heard the low murmured words, “You are not mistaken, Mr. Caffrey. You are in the right place.”

Well, okay, that was settled, but the older man still made no overtures, didn’t open the door any wider or even move off to the side to allow Neal access. The escort wondered if he was even going to make it over the threshold tonight, and this was getting a bit weird.

Finally Neal asked gently, “Mr. Randall, do you want me to come in? Perhaps you have had a change of heart about this visit.”

Suddenly, the gentleman seemed to shake off his paralytic trance. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude and a bit dimwitted tonight. Yes, I do want you to come in, Mr. Caffrey.”

Neal took a breath. Now they were finally getting somewhere, but, unfortunately, the progress didn’t last long. Once inside the gargantuan vestibule, the homeowner began looking like a deer caught in the headlights again, so it was Neal’s move.

 “You can call me Neal rather than Mr. Caffrey,” he assured his host.

Randall stared into Neal’s eyes for a brief second before responding. “Yes, Neal sounds a bit less formal, and I’ll be sure to do that. You can call me Alistair.”

Neal was quickly parsing the situation which seemed like the prelude to a very long evening. Now that he was actually here, Mr. Randall didn’t seem to know what to do with him. This was going to be problematic. Sighing inwardly, Neal continued to try to break through the ice yet again. “You have an impressive residence, Alistair.”

Randall seemed content to let Neal initiate the conversation so all that the old man had to do was provide a simple, uncomplicated answer. “I suppose it looks a bit pretentious—the house I mean. I’m not really sure why I bought it. It’s huge and I rattle around in it like a tumbleweed day after day.”

Neal was intuitive and could have enlightened him on that subject. He instinctively surmised that Randall had purchased this place because it was the kind of home he had probably always lived in. When the old guy had suddenly found himself alone and adrift, he sought comfort in what had always been familiar. It was a logical and sound concept, but obviously it wasn’t working for the widower.

“Where do you spend most of your time?” Neal asked curiously, realizing the ball was in his court once again.

“I prefer to relax in my library,” was the quick answer. “I’m sorry,” Randall apologized, “I’m a terrible host who has forgotten his manners. Please come, let me show you the way. I always have an evening  glass of brandy in that room. Perhaps you could share one with me.”

“I’d be delighted,” Neal answered with a smile.

When Randall had mentioned a library, Neal expected a moderately-sized dark paneled room with some book shelves and a desk. The room that Randall showed him into was light years from that vision. The huge space did indeed have dark wooden paneling bracketing two very tall mullioned windows, and there were shelves—many shelves. They actually covered all four sides of the room and rose at least a story and a half. Neal even saw one of those old-time sliding ladders which enable a person to climb up and reach a volume from the upper tiers. Neal couldn’t begin to estimate how many books were displayed in the room. There had to have been hundreds.

“This is amazing,” he remarked as he strolled around the space. “I don’t think even a bookstore has this many volumes in its inventory.”

“Books are a passion of mine and have been since I was a youngster and read my first _‘Hardy Boys’_ mystery,” Randall enthused.

Neal must have looked puzzled because his host began to chuckle. “You are very young, Neal, much too young to remember that quaint little series written to entertain teens back in my day. Sometimes I feel like an old fossil. I think if you presented children with a physical copy of a book today, they’d probably ask you where the batteries are supposed to go.”

Neal smiled. “You may be right. It would seem that if something doesn’t have a mechanical controller and a joy stick, then it holds no appeal for kids.”

“Well, books have never lost their appeal for me,” the home owner decreed. “I’ve been collecting them for decades. I actually have some rather unique first editions, if you’d like to see them.”

“I would,” Neal replied graciously.

A young man found himself gawking in awe at first editions of _Jane Eye, Murders at the Rue Morgue, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ , and _The Old Man and the Sea_ , to name a few. They were delicately displayed on little acrylic tripods behind glass that had a grayish hue.

“The Hemingway and the Mark Twain ones were actually signed by the authors,” Randall said reverently. “The cabinet where they reside was specially made to keep the temperature at 68 degrees and the humidity at 30%. The glass is a type which doesn’t allow for penetration by ultraviolet light.”

“Did you acquire these because they are particular favorites of yours?” Neal asked curiously.

“Not really,” Randall replied. “I went after them because they were there for the taking and I had to have them. I suppose I’m like an addict because I get a rush when I can pull it off and hold something rare and precious in my hands. That must sounds illogical and ridiculous to you.”

“No, not at all,” Neal answered. “Having masterpieces within your grasp must be exhilarating, like stealing the _Mona Lisa_ from the Louvre and being able to contemplate her smile whenever you wish.”

“Maybe you do understand,” Randall smiled. “I subscribe to a monthly periodical that informs me when rare books are available at auctions or put on the market by other collectors. I’ve traveled around the globe amassing my treasure trove, and after I’m gone, it will find another home at the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue.”

Neal was continuing to cruise about the room as Randall was speaking. The man certainly had eclectic tastes. There were classic Greek mythology tomes and volumes of Shakespeare’s plays as well as contemporary works by Grisham and Patterson.

“Have you actually read them all?” Neal asked.

“I have, sometimes more than once,” Randall confirmed. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read _The Sherlock Holmes_ mysteries. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a genius. If you’ve enjoyed his tales of murder and mayhem, then I’m sure you must agree,” Randall remarked as led his guest toward two club chairs and began pouring an amber liquid into brandy snifters.

And that is where the two men sat for hours engaged in lively literary discussions of plotlines and themes until the ancient grandfather clock in the room broke through their concentration. When it chimed the hour of midnight, it incongruously ended the spell. At first Randall seemed startled, like Cinderella realizing she was out past curfew. Then he looked embarrassed.

“I’m sorry for chewing your ear off about my eccentricity. I realize you’re probably on the clock,” he mumbled.

“The evening is over when you say it is over,” Neal answered quietly.

“I must admit this was not how I expected things to go,” Randall replied without meeting Neal’s eyes.

“I know,” his guest whispered softly.

“Maybe you could come back another time and allow me to be a better host,” Randall murmured.

“I’d like that,” Neal said with a warm smile. “And just so you know, this was the most enjoyable and stimulating evening that I’ve experienced in a long time.”


	4. Encore! Encore!

“How’d it go last night?” Elyse Harrington inquired the next morning.

“It was intriguing,” Neal replied, “almost as intriguing as you wanting to know details. You’ve never wanted a critique of any of my dates before, so this is an unusual request.”

“I’m just curious,” she pouted.

“Well, you know what they say about curiosity and the cat,” Neal teased.

“Don’t forget that I’m your boss, young man!” she replied haughtily.

Neal gave his employer a shit-eating grin before taunting her just a bit more. “Mr. Randall and I actually discussed the fatalistic symbolism of rain in Hemingway’s novel, _A Farewell To Arms._ That took up at least an hour, and then we moved on to the deep-seated existentialism in Faulkner’s work.”

“So,” Elyse drawled, “I take it you two didn’t get it on under the sheets.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure that he really wants to step off that cliff just yet,” Neal confessed. “Baby steps, Ms. Harrington. Give the poor guy a bit of a break until he has some kind of epiphany one way or the other. If he calls to schedule another date, perhaps the high drama will begin to unfold. All I can say at this point is that he’s an endearing man and a very lonely one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal turned his phone back on when he left a New York University classroom down in Washington Square Park. He was currently enrolled as a masters student after presenting forged proof of a bachelor’s degree awarded by Syracuse just the year before. The wily young man had even managed to get financial aid to further his education with other false documentation. While he had been listening attentively to the lecture, he had missed a call from Elyse Harrington as well as her strident message of, _“Call me back, Buster!”_

“What’s up, Elyse?” Neal asked nonchalantly.

“You do not get to go off the grid, Neal,” she fumed. “When I call, you answer.”

“I was a bit tied up when you rang, Mistress,” he answered cheekily.

“That sounds kinky, Neal,” she finally relented as she teased him back. “So what were you actually doing?”

“I’m taking a course in Renaissance art history down in the Village, and they have a strict policy about accepting calls during a lecture,” Neal admitted.

“Ah, your little painting hobby,” she mused. “Do you really think you’ll be the next Rafael one day?”

“Well, maybe I won’t actually be him, but owning one of his works would be the next best thing,” Neal answered, thinking about the one currently on display at the Met located very close to an exit door. He was still fantasizing about a way to appropriate it without getting caught.

“Well, Mr. Randall called the office today,” Elyse took up the thread of the conversation once again. “He wanted to book you for Saturday, but you have that gala thing with the Lipinski matron. He was willing to settle for a weeknight, so he’s expecting you next Wednesday—same time, same place. Be your sweet, charming self, Darling, and keep me informed.”

“Elyse, some things are on a need-to-know basis,” Neal chided.

“Well, ‘Mr. Close To The Vest,’ I need to know!”

~~~~~~~~~~

A casually-dressed Neal arrived promptly at the intimidating mansion. This time, the door was quickly opened as if Alistair had been waiting for him. As before, the man was clad in another old-fashioned cardigan with his eyeglasses nestled on his chest. The ensemble was completed with the addition of corduroy trousers that made wispy sounds when he moved. Neal wondered if this was the mandated uniform for retired bankers who previously had to endure three-piece suits during their whole career.

“Hello, Neal,” Randall said with a shy smile. “Please come in.”

“Hello, Alistair. It’s nice to be here once more,” Neal replied gallantly.

“Shall we start by indulging in another brandy?” the host asked.

“That sounds enticing,” Neal heartily agreed as he followed Randall along the now familiar path to the library.

“You know,” Neal began once they had reached the huge repository of books, “when you enter this room, it feels like you’re entering a venerable old cathedral. It has an aura of old reverence about it.”

“It’s odd that you would say something like that,” Randall mused. “My wife, Edna, used to refer to it as a monastery—a place where I could cloister myself away from the world.”

“Perhaps she was right,” Neal replied slowly. “I think it may be a sort of sanctuary for you, Alistair, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. There’s no shame in wanting to be cocooned in a safe place when you get tired of being buffeted about by the world around you.”

“Well, I wasn’t hiding—not really,” Randall defended himself. “Neither was I just reading novels to escape reality. You may not have noticed, but there are a fair number of books in here that are non-fictional in nature. There are volumes on philosophy, religion, physics, astronomy, as well as other esoteric sciences. I’ve read them all many times so that I could add to my knowledge. Permit me to quote a very astute man. Gandhi once said, “Live as if you many die tomorrow, and learn as if you may live forever.”

Neal smiled. “You are a very interesting man, Alistair, with many faces.”

“Not really, Neal. When it comes down to it, I’m just a boring and stodgy old banker. My wife said she always pictured me as meek Bob Cratchit, Ebenezer Scrooge’s underpaid whipping boy, bent over my lists of debits and credits.”

“I can’t imagine that you were really underpaid considering all the trappings I see around me,” Neal replied.

“All of this wasn’t earned, Neal,” Randall said as he waved his arms to encompass the surroundings. “It was inherited from generations that came before in both my family and my wife’s. Our marriage was carefully arranged to keep the wealth intact. We certainly weren’t doe-eyed, star-crossed lovers. Our union was more of a cold and calculated business arrangement.”

“Should I say I’m sorry?” Neal asked quietly.

Randall shrugged. “It was what it was, and you just learned to suck it up and keep putting up a front. There were many other couples in our social circle who endured the same situation, but we all played our parts with grace and dignity.”

“I know about role playing, Alistair,” Neal said earnestly. “My training began when I was a child, and sometimes I think I wouldn’t recognize or even like the real me if I met myself on a street corner.”

“I believe you may be selling yourself short, Neal. I don’t think a person can fake the sincerity that I see in your eyes,” Alistair murmured.

Neal felt a pang of remorse. Alistair Randall was a nice man, and Neal was handling him like a project rather than a human being. The young man silently asked himself if he was being sincere when he played his part. Well, maybe he was genuinely trying to help this needy individual because he truly did like him, but did that mitigate his intentions? Neal’s psyche warned him not to delve too deeply into motivations because who in the hell wanted to deal with a personal dichotomy and a crisis of the soul right now?

“So, tell me about banking, Alistair,” Neal skewed the conversation back to safer ground. “That profession encompassed your whole career, so you must have found it at least a little interesting.”

“I told you, Neal, I’m boring and stodgy,” Randall said with a rueful smile.

“But very good at your forte or you wouldn’t have become chairman of the Federal Reserve Board,” Neal shot down Randall’s protestation of being dull.

“That was just an appointed position,” Randall tried to play off the importance.

“Right, an appointment bestowed on you by the President of the United States,” Neal pushed. “That’s pretty impressive and it gave you a lot of clout. So, what was your mandate and explain how you used your authority?”

“Do you really want to know?” Randall asked dubiously

“I really want to know,” Neal assured him.

Randall suddenly became a bit more animated. “To put it into broad strokes, the Board of Governors are charged with overseeing the monetary policy of the United States. Our members represent a cross-section of our country’s geographical divisions so that all interests, such as agricultural, industrial, commercial, and well as financial, get an equal say to keep everything in a fair balance. We carefully monitor inflation and the value of our currency on the world market, and we adjust the supply of money and credit accordingly. Our agency was originally created to avoid another financial panic like the run on the banks after the Stock Market crash of 1929.”

“So, you keep the financial wheels turning and humming along smoothly,” Neal summed it up. “Was it difficult to do?”

“Oh, my goodness, you have no idea,” Randall quickly said. “Thanks to the advent of computers and cyber connections, the world has become much more interdependent because global economies are now vastly linked. Our market is affected by what happens in Japan, or China, or any country in Europe or Asia. We are impacted if there is a default or bankruptcy on any foreign shore. And don’t even get me started on how a corrupt person can cause massive mayhem by clever manipulation and deceit. They now can swindle their way through the system using an app on their phones, and afterwards transfer and hide their ill-gotten gains anywhere in the Caribbean, South America, or Indonesia. I saw so much of that when I was president of my own bank. Some of what occurred was sheer Machiavellian genius. Of course, we turned to the FBI for assistance, but, in a lot of cases, even the Feds couldn’t figure it out and bring the culprits to justice.”

“Wow!” Neal enthused. “Now that’s intriguing. Can you explain it to me in simple terms so that I can understand how that could happen?”

Again Randall asked, “Do you really want to know?”

Neal quickly answered in the affirmative. “Yes, I _really_ want to know.”

So, an eager pupil learned at the feet of the master. Randall expounded on financial scams for hours, and he was a very good teacher. Neal drank it all in and filed away every little golden nugget in his memory bank for future reference. This knowledge would definitely open up new avenues for a budding con artist.

When the grandfather clock in the room sounded the midnight hour, Randall seemed shocked. “My, God, I can’t believe the time. Yet again, it’s gotten away from me, and a wimpy old fool still hasn’t even summoned up the courage to address the real elephant in the room!” Randall said with a bit of self-flagellating remorse.

“Do you want to talk about that elephant?” Neal inquired softly.

“I guess we should have some kind of discussion about what is expected of both of us,” Randall replied uneasily.

“Tell me what you want to happen,” Neal said, holding Randall’s attention with his blue-eyed gaze.

“I’m not really sure. I suppose Ms. Harrington told you that this will be the first time for me in this type of encounter.”

“It will be my first time as well,” Neal murmured.

Randall’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I assume that is what you are supposed to say to help quell an ignorant and foolish man’s skittishness.”

“It’s what _I’m_ saying, Alistair, because it’s the truth,” Neal reassured him.

The older man looked incredulous. “Somehow, I think I believe you,” he answered after a few beats, his brown eyes now wide in fascinated awe.

Neal wasn’t certain how to proceed. Suddenly, he was having troubling reading his date’s mind, and that was an unusual occurrence for him.

“Look, Alistair, I’m sure this is not exactly what you signed on for, and I’m sorry if you feel it was some kind of ‘bait and switch’ tactic that wasted your time. I can certainly speak with Ms. Harrington to see if she might be agreeable about returning any money you have already paid. She has other experienced young men on retainer who could replace me.”

“But I don’t want to replace you, Neal,” Alistair said softly. “I really like you and my instincts are telling me to trust you. Do you think maybe we could try to figure things out together—you know, like the blind leading the blind?”

Neal actually laughed. “Well, Alistair, I’m game if you are.”

“Splendid!” a suddenly happy man extolled. “Until next week then.”

When Neal went to pick up his paycheck that Friday, Elyse Harrington looked up from the ledger on her desk. “Alistair Randall just called, and you, dear heart, now have a standing appointment with him every Wednesday evening.” The woman then pointed to her own expression.

“This is the face of me not asking,” she deadpanned.

“And I love that face, Mama,” Neal laughed as he kissed her delicately on the forehead. “Yep, I absolutely love it!”


	5. And the Curtain Descends

Neal reasoned that perhaps the third time was going to be the charm in the questionable seduction of Alistair Randall. He wondered if the obviously-ambivalent man would carry through with the plan because he somehow seemed to be hung up on ‘grace and dignity,’ to paraphrase the banker’s own words. When Randall opened the door that night, he did seem a bit nervous.

“Should we start with our usual brandy?” he prattled on as he led the way to the library with Neal trailing along. However, before the edgy man began pouring the amber liquid into snifters, he turned in Neal’s general direction without actually meeting his visitor’s eyes.

“Do you think we could enjoy these upstairs?” he mumbled almost inaudibly.

“Perhaps in your bedroom?” Neal asked softly.

“Yes,” the timid man answered after looking up and searching Neal’s eyes beseechingly.

“I think that will work just fine,” Neal assured him as he took the decanter and the glasses from Randall’s hands. “After you,” he said with a smile.

The two men wended their way up a magnificent spiral staircase to the second floor, and then down a dark parquet hallway topped with an Oriental runner. Randall’s bedroom at the end of the corridor had two massive, ornately carved doors that had been left open so that the viewer’s first image was that of a king-size bed bathed in muted light from boudoir lamps on matching night tables. The linens on the bed had been carefully turned down, and Neal wouldn’t have been surprised to see foil wrapped chocolates on the pillows. The young man placed the brandy on a marble-topped table off to the side after pouring two generous glasses. Holding them up, he turned to Randall and asked innocently, “Which side of the bed do you prefer?”

“Um, I usually sleep on the left. That’s because it’s closest to the bathroom. At my age, that’s a definite perk,” Randall said with a slight grimace.

Neal deposited one snifter on the left night table, and then its mate on the right. He slipped off his loafers and slid onto the bed, using the oversized pillows to cushion his back. Randall hesitated for a few seconds before taking his own spot beside his guest. The two men sipped their libations in silence until Randall took a deep breath, steadfastly gulped down what was left in his glass, and lumbered to his feet. “Please excuse me for a moment,” he whispered as he sought the privacy of the bathroom. Neal sighed, placed his glass on the night table closest to him and turned off one of the lights. The room was now much dimmer with less harsh sheen being reflected off the highly polished furniture. He waited patiently until Randall made a return appearance wearing a t-shirt and baggy boxer shorts. When the retired banker reclaimed his place beside Neal on the bed, the young man could smell the pungent scent of what was probably mint toothpaste. Somehow, Neal found that simple but thoughtful gesture very touching. He smiled and began removing his own clothing until he was, likewise, down to a t-shirt and briefs.

“Should I keep going?” he asked Randall softly.

“Yes, please,” the older man whispered.

When Neal was gloriously naked, he stretched out beside Randall who seemed to prefer keeping his underwear intact like a suit of chain mail. He was definitely staring, but it wasn’t into Neal’s blue eyes.

“You are magnificent,” the awed man breathed out.

“You can touch me if you want,” Neal informed him.

Randall hesitated for a few seconds before letting his warm and soft hand snake its way onto a finely-chiseled chest and then down to the ripped abdominal planes of Neal’s torso. When that hand eventually delved down even lower, Neal closed his eyes and allowed himself to respond to the exquisite tactile pleasure of the moment. He tried to keep his breathing even as the erotic sensation evolved and the tension mounted, but his concentration was ruined when Randall suddenly stiffened beside him, gave a soft cry, and then moaned. When Neal glanced over at the distressed man, he realized that Randall had gone over the edge. The spreading wet stain on the front of his shorts told the tale in graphic detail.

“I’m sorry,” Randall whispered miserably, obviously mortified at his over-eager reaction.

Neal smiled fondly. “Don’t be, Alistair. I’ll take what happened as a compliment.”

“I think I’ll take it as an affirmation,” Randall answered morosely. “It certainly dispelled any doubts that I might have had.”

“Is that really a bad thing?” Neal probed. “The knowing, I mean,” he clarified.

“If I’m going to be completely honest, I think I have always known, even from a very young age,” Randall admitted. “Maybe at first, I could convince myself it was just a lark and would pass, but deep down I doubted that it would just fade away in time.”

“Maybe sometimes things aren’t always clear at first, especially if you are naïve and unsure,” Neal mused. “Perhaps it does take time to figure things out and to then accept your own truth.”

“Well, according to my father, my truth was an aberration,” Randall replied. “That’s exactly the word he used when I was young.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Neal asked kindly, “That may help to exorcize the demons of a narrow-minded world.”

Randall sighed. “Do you really want to hear my tale of woe, Neal?”

“Only if you want to tell me,” Neal said as he gazed into the man’s sad eyes.

Randall hesitated, but then began to reminisce. “Well, in my family, it was a tradition for young men to attend a prestigious prep-school. Most were boarding schools that would shape Waspy adolescent minds so they could eventually assume their proper and predetermined place on the social register. It was a ridiculously snobbish thing, but all the families in high society strictly adhered to it. I matriculated through that insular atmosphere, and you probably won’t find it hard to believe that I was what the young people today call ‘geeky.’ I always wore thick glasses and had an embarrassing overbite, so I was teased unmercifully the entire time I was a student. There was one other outcast. His name was Carlton and he was as awkward as I was. He was my only real friend and I grew to love him, or at least I thought that I did. We’d find a quiet alcove to study and to fantasize about escaping our oppressive lives. Eventually, it just seemed natural that we’d embrace or share a kiss. Maybe it was more about being curious than being in love,” Randall admitted. “We never did anything but touch, and I can’t even remember if I ever experienced an erection while I was with him. I just knew I felt comfortable and safe around him. But, one day we were discovered and I was immediately expelled for behavior unbecoming to a gentleman. My father was livid, of course, and told me to get over my ‘aberration,’ which was never mentioned again.”

“Ergo, the genesis of your inner conflict,” Neal surmised. “You were never allowed to internalize what is really a very essential truth—the heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Perhaps,” Randall mused. “Let’s just say that I followed the rules from that day onward. I married a female, had sexual relations with her until she conceived our son, and then sought my own solitary bedroom. Edna was not a stupid woman. She knew that it was hard for me to perform for her in our marital bed, and after she had our child, Lawrence, she seemed content with our solitary arrangements. She was a good woman who stuck by me and kept my secret to her dying day. It makes me feel guilty because she deserved so much better than what I had to offer.”

“Did you ever confide in your son when he became an adult and could understand your feelings?” Neal asked curiously.

Randall sighed again. “Our relationship has always been a bit adversarial, I’m afraid. Edna seemed to channel all of her affection into Lawrence to make up for my lack of warmth and support. She spoiled and indulged the boy, and he thought he was entitled to ignore all responsibility for his actions. In fact, Lawrence never admitted anything was his fault. He always blamed others when he failed, and, believe me, he failed miserably at everything he tried. He never seemed to equate success with hard work. Edna enabled him to stay Peter Pan and never grow up. She sent him money every month until she passed away. Since her death, I’ve stopped the money train, and I am very unpopular with my offspring right now.”

“Maybe a dose of reality will re-center his moral compass,” Neal offered. “Perhaps in time, you can come to a meeting of the minds.”

“I don’t think that’s in the cards for us. Unfortunately, I’m afraid my only son appears to be working a new angle,” Randall said almost bitterly without elaborating.

“I’m sorry,” was all Neal could think to say.

“So am I,” an old father replied.

~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next couple of months, the relationship between Neal and Alistair took on an air of exploration, a safari into the as yet unknown for both of them. Just as a young escort had done with his ladies, Neal urged Alistair to vocalize what he wanted without suffering pangs of shame. The bedroom was a safe, nonjudgmental place. It took a while, but the older man eventually became more confident and a bit bolder. Perhaps he was as surprised as Neal when he found that he liked playing the dominant role. Neal’s epiphany was that it actually was pleasurable to feel Alistair gently push into his depths as they rocked in their own rhythm. During those Wednesday nights, each found solace and contentment, at least for a little while.

One summer evening, Alistair took Neal’s face in his hands as they lay side-by-side in that big king-size bed. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?” Neal asked curiously

“For being you and allowing me to be me,” Randall said obliquely.

“It was definitely my pleasure to see you play the role you were meant to play,” Neal replied fondly.

“I was never playing a role or existing behind a mask with you, Neal,” Randall whispered poignantly. “I think I became a real person when we met, and I didn’t have to hide anymore. I had worn that stupid mask far too long, pretending to be somebody else. Pretending, always pretending to be some other entity that was living a life manufactured for me. To be honest, I believe the never-ending charade insidiously sucked away my life force. Sometimes, I think it created an empty void inside of me so that I became just a hollow shell. I was a miserable and sad person, and because I was so ego-centric, I caused grievous emotional harm to others over the course of my lifetime.”

Neal sat up and stared deeply into his lover’s eyes. “What’s going on, Alistair? I feel there’s a sort of subliminal message embedded in the background. Am I wrong to worry?”

“No, my dear boy, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m just finally reaping the crop that I’ve sown, and it makes me a bit sad and guilt-ridden as well as profoundly disappointed.”

“I’m going to need a bit more than that to stop worrying,” Neal said earnestly.

Randall sighed. “I once told you that I had a son. Lawrence and I are still estranged because I refuse to support a forty-six year old man who is too lazy to make his own way in the world. When Edna died, she bequeathed him a hefty amount of money as well as the title to a beach house that we owned up on Narragansett Bay in New England. She truly loved that picturesque spot and spent almost every summer there while I worked in the city. Lawrence was never content to stay put for very long, not even as a kid. He always wanted to be off to some ritzy tennis or equestrian camp during his downtime. Even after he took title of the beach house property when Edna died, he rarely went there, preferring to hang his hat in all the hedonistic hot spots throughout Europe. Now it appears that he is broke, so he’s preparing to sell off his last asset. Lawrence has been cleaning out the furniture in the cottage before he puts the property up for sale. Apparently, he found a sort of journal that his mother kept while she whiled away her summer days. In that intimate diary, Edna bared her soul and laid mine open as well. She wrote down things that she could never tell anyone, things that I’m sure it’s not hard for you to imagine.”

“So Lawrence knows your secret,” Neal said quietly. “So what? He’s a grown man and I can’t see how that personal fact should impact who he is or what he has become? Is he trying to blame you for making him a fuck up?”

“Unfortunately, yes—in a very big way,” Randall admitted as he opened the drawer of the night table and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. “Evidently, Lawrence has been in contact with some muckraker, who, in turn, hired a sleazy ghost writer to pen my son’s memoires. He messengered me the first two chapters of what he claims will be the next best seller. It’s called, _“I’m the Product of a_ _Gay Father,_ ” and Lawrence portrays himself as a victim, psychologically and irrevocably scarred for life by what he calls an ongoing perverted sham.”

Neal looked affronted. “Alistair, obviously this is very upsetting, but maybe it’s never going to get off the ground. Worst case scenario, you’re outed, but it’s not the end of the world because some third-rate hack churned out some hyped-up salacious scandal. In the present social and political climate, people probably won’t even bat an eye. It’s not juicy or prurient enough for today’s readers.”

“You’re right, Neal, of course, you’re right,” Randall said with a smile as he cupped Neal’s face between his two hands. “Now, let’s forget all this unpleasantness and make love one last time before you leave.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Neal got a phone call from Elyse Harrington. “You need to stop by, Neal. There’s a package here for you from Alistair Randall. Apparently, it was left with a messenger service late last night and they delivered it first thing this morning.”

When Neal arrived, she handed him an oblong box. Inside Neal found a signed collector’s edition of Ernest Hemingway’s, _A Farewell To Arms_. There was also a small handwritten note tucked inside the cover.

_“When you remember me, Neal, please don’t visualize me forlornly trudging home in the rain. Instead, see me happily smiling and joyous as I basked in the glorious sunshine you provided.”_

“I don’t understand,” Neal told Elyse with a puzzled expression. “If he wanted me to have this, why didn’t he give it to me in person?”

“Perhaps because he knew he wouldn’t be able to do that, Sweetheart,” Elyse replied softly. “You see, Mr. Randall died last evening after ingesting an overdose of barbiturates. His longtime housekeeper found him this morning. According to her, the police are keeping the true cause of death under wraps out of respect, and his own personal physician listed it as the result of cardiac arrest. That’s essentially true since his heart did stop beating at the end.”

“I should have seen this coming,” Neal whispered.

Elyse took pity on the shocked young man. “We can’t know what’s in another person’s mind unless they tell us, Neal. I’m sure he had his reasons, and we’ll probably never know what they were.”

But Neal did know, and not picking up on the cues from an emotionally crushed and beaten man made him feel miserable. He needed vindication for gentle and kind Alistair, and a determined young man set out on a course that would leave nothing but scorched earth for a very nasty son. Neal had the clever wherewithal, thanks to the astute banker, to wreak havoc on Lawrence Randall. He became quite creative in his mission, developing a fabricated but damning profile that included pyramid schemes, income tax evasion, money laundering, as well as illicit arms sales to a subversive faction in the Ukraine that was on Homeland Security’s watch list. By tweaking a few keys on a laptop, Neal spooled out money trails that bounced around the globe. They weren’t real, just phantom numbers typed on a keyboard that winked on and off enticingly. Nevertheless, Lawrence was suddenly going to be neck deep in some serious shit, and an evil, disgusting son would probably never be able to climb out of the cesspool.

When he was happy with his work, Neal scrolled his way through the various departments that fell under the auspices of the FBI. He decided that Cybercrimes might be the ticket for Lawrence Randall. He chose a name near the top of the alphabet, and forwarded copies of damning evidence from an anonymous whistleblower to a Fed named Peter Burke. He hoped the guy might thank him one day for making the bust of his career, but Neal knew that was probably just a pipedream.

Neal had no way of knowing that Agent Peter Burke had recently transferred out of the Cybercrimes Division of the FBI to take his place in the White Collar Crime arena. When the agent eventually received and read the explosive evidence, he reluctantly turned it over to a compatriot in the proper department. Someone else would glean the accolades and make the impressive bust of a lifetime, marking Neal and Peter’s first missed connection.


	6. Changing Careers

Neal was a dedicated people person, and he loved the exciting, exhilarating vibe of New York City. He never grew tired or felt jaded watching the masses of humanity hurrying along the streets. It was the antithesis of his bland life in the Midwest. He never looked at people with a jaundiced eye when they giggled and snapped photos of “The Naked Cowboy” in Times Square or lined up at Madam Trousseau’s to mug and take selfies with wax figures. It was fun and part of the kitsch. During free afternoons, he was usually meandering through the stalls in Bryant Park, or watching chess matches in Washington Square if he was in Lower Manhattan. It was down in the Village where he had an apartment that he first noticed what he knew was a two-person team fleecing customers in a contest of chance. Being a scam artist, himself, with quick, nimble fingers, he quickly identified the players in a Three-Card Monty scheme.

Neal couldn’t seem to rein himself in. He had to beat these guys at their own game. It was so ridiculously easy, and he relished the astounded looks on their faces when they realized they’d been had.  He knew that they knew, but there was nothing they could do about it because of the number of interested onlookers. Their loss—too bad—find yourself another rube next time, fellas! Well, that was not exactly the end of the encounter. One of the scammers was actually brazen enough to pound on Neal’s door not one hour later.

Maybe Neal should have felt threatened or intimidated when a short middle-aged man with a ridiculously cheap and tacky wig confronted him. What Neal actually felt was amusement and curiosity, and he let the guy into his apartment. Not long after, he let the weird little imp into his life.

Neal had dreams and aspirations, but so did Mozzie, and the pint-size elf’s were bigger and grander. He began by casting out his line like a fisherman, and his lure was complimenting Neal’s artistic expertise. He was particularly impressed and inspired by Neal’s replicas of some Atlantic bearer bonds.

“I think these are extraordinary and you just might be able to pull it off,” Mozzie remarked.

“I have pulled it off a time or two,” Neal reassured him. He had cashed a couple not long after Alistair Randall had passed away. The old collector had inspired a much younger one, and Neal needed cash in hand to bid on a rare _Jane Austin_ book at a bibliophile auction. His hadn’t been the top offer, but he saw a lot of memorabilia that tweaked his interest. George Washington’s love letters to Martha also went to a higher bidder, and Neal kept track of the new owner for future reference.

Mozzie was a lot like Neal, having had to fend for himself from early childhood and always possessing a hunger that could never be satisfied. Neal understood his mindset and his need, so he was patient and tolerant of some ridiculously peculiar habits. The two men may not have been able to live together under the same roof, but  they were simpatico in all other aspects. The world was their oyster if they could just pry it open to extract the odd pearl.

Mozzie was also a lot like Elyse Harrington. He became Neal’s new mentor, schooling his protégé in different, innovative ways to pull a con after demanding that Neal do his homework first. “Know your mark,” he chanted time after time, delivering an almost verbatim lecture as that of a madam when she referred to Neal’s dates. Sometimes Neal thought if Mozzie and Elyse teamed up, they could rule the world. With that end in mind, Mozzie was dedicated to keeping his ear to the ground and his fingers on the pulse of the New York metropolis. Opportunities were there; you just had to recognize them and shoot for the stars. One day, he was particularly inspired with a possible scheme, telling Neal he may have found a way to harpoon a great white whale.

Of course, Mozzie knew his own limitations. He could never pull off a con on Vincent Adler, but a young, handsome, and charming Nick Halden could. He urged Neal to cash in another bond at a local bank, never realizing the prophetic implications of a chance meeting between Neal and a very special FBI agent outside on the street. That interaction could have presented an unfortunate hiccup in a plan that was about to be launched, but it turned out to be nothing—at least that’s what Mozzie thought. Neal’s perception was a bit different. He actually got an up-close-and-personal view of someone who had only been a name on an FBI list. The now in-the-flesh agent looked like your typical buttoned-up Federal flatfoot. Neal was almost disappointed that he wasn’t more impressed with the Elliot Ness knockoff. Too bad Neal didn’t have the benefit of premonitions or possess a crystal ball. But, that future story was yet to unfold, and, right now, there were other fish to fry.

So, Neal became Mozzie’s front man, and the real inspirational brain trust behind the plot would manipulate the strings from the shadows. Neal played his new role with dazzling panache, kowtowing to a smug, self-centered, and dangerous business magnate. For Neal, it was an exciting game; for Mozzie it was damn serious and he wasn’t happy when Neal began coloring outside the lines with a pretty, dark-haired seductress. Kate Moreau was throwing a monkey wrench into their well-oiled machinery, and, if Mozzie still had any hair on his head, he would have been pulling it out in frustration.

“Keep your eye on the prize, Neal,” he demanded. “Stop letting your attention wander while you drool over some skirt.”

“Kate is special,” Neal argued, “she’s not just some fling. I really like her and I think she likes me.”

“Stop being so romantically needy!” Mozzie would argue. Unfortunately, it was like preaching to the choir, and Neal ignored what Mozzie considered sage advice.

Elyse Harrington handled the situation with a bit more finesse when Neal informed her that he was getting out of the escort business. “You’ve met someone,” she correctly surmised. “I know the signs of a smitten lover when I see them. Those hallmarks mean that the escort shelf life we talked about has been reached. I’m not totally convinced there is anything like true love alive and well in the world today, but maybe you and your paramour will be exceptions to the rule. I will miss you, Dear, as will many other ladies in this city. I would venture a guess there will be a lot of black bunting soon adorning many doorways throughout Manhattan. Good luck and Godspeed, Neal.”

Kate was different from all the older ladies that Neal had been romancing during the last year. Those mature but insecure women needed to be fostered and nurtured until they realized their own worth. Kate already was well aware of her value. She was the whole package—intelligent, beautiful, and perceptive. She could have had her pick of many successful and attractive men, so why would she take a chance on a young, cute “boy” who performed magic tricks with her jewelry? Now it was Neal who had to convince a woman of _his_ worth.

Neal might have been cocky and self-assured when he played the role of Adler’s lackey, but he was ardent and sincere as he wooed the man’s secretary. There was no deceptive artifice, except for maybe an alias that wasn’t his true name. Nevertheless, Nick/Neal wanted to lay the world at this girl’s feet. He wanted to shower her with gems and fabulous, priceless works of art, starting with Rafael’s _St. George and the Dragon_. Nothing would be too good for this alluring creature who had captured his heart. He finally managed to wear her down, and he was drunk on love. When they came together in bed, fireworks exploded in Neal’s head and he sometimes forgot to breathe. He had never felt like this before, and tried to stifle the urge to write romantic and cloying poetry. He was screwed in so many different ways, and wasn’t immune to his own pangs of insecurity. Could he hold on to this stupendous prize, or would she leave him one day and break his heart into a thousand pieces?

Perhaps Neal should have been more worried about the business end of his life, because the day of reckoning arrived unexpectedly when Adler proved to be much more insidiously nefarious than two shell-shocked con artists. Everything evaporated in a puff of smoke, and suddenly Kate was now the needy one.

“I’ll always take care of you,” Neal vowed. “We’ll find a way out of this together—always together,” he pleaded. Kate went along with the schemes and the thefts because she had acquired expensive tastes, and that was a hard habit to break. Existing on a diet of Ramen noodles and cheap jug wine wasn’t exactly her interpretation of living the good life, so Neal and Mozzie showed her ways to appease her epicurean tastes. At first, it was small capers until she was sufficiently schooled and had become proficient in the art of the con. Then it was off to greener and grander pastures throughout the capitals of Europe. She proved to be a natural, and even Mozzie admitted she had potential, but it was often difficult to endure her tantrums and pouty sulks. She didn’t really play nice with others, and although she tolerated alliances with men like Matthew Keller, she couldn’t bring herself to be pleasant to women in that unscrupulous circle. Alex Hunter turned Kate into a green-eyed monster, so Neal wisely kept them tenuously compartmentalized.

Neal tried desperately to keep all the balls in the air, but even the most adept juggler occasionally falters. When he messed up, the love of his life suddenly disappeared and he was like a driven man on a mission to find her again. “You remind me of Don Quixote,” Mozzie said in disgust, “always embarking on an impossible and ridiculous quest. Obviously, your little chippy doesn’t want to be found, so get over her and move on, mon frère. It’s the healthier way to go.”

“No,” Neal countered, “I have to prove something to her. I’ve got to be stupendously impressive and send her a message. Then she’ll understand how much I love her and come back to me.”

It wasn’t long before Rafael’s painting of _St. George and the Dragon_ disappeared from the National Galley of Art in Washington DC. Neal could only hope the romantic gesture had been enough to get Kate’s attention. It wasn’t, but Neal did earn himself some interested scrutiny on another more dangerous front. Peter Burke began to pay close attention to reports about a new player on the scene.

Mozzie sometimes felt like a helpless, wide-eyed onlooker watching a runaway freight train barrel down a steep hill. Nothing was too dicey or treacherous for a determined young fool as he risked his neck performing daredevil stunts and perilous capers time after time across the European landscape. “This is insanity, Neal,” Mozzie would caution. “It’s too crazy even for somebody like me to comprehend, much less appreciate.”

Neal ignored his friend’s jitteriness, and continued with the campaign to gain notoriety as well as a rather large fortune that he meticulously squirreled away in little hidey-holes around the US. He never saw Kate’s face in the crowd while he was on the job in the changing kaleidoscope of cities, but there was another figure that struck a familiar cord. Neal was just leaving Florence, Italy after being a very busy boy. He had appropriated a small Medici cameo portrait from the Uffizi Gallery as well as a Titian painting from the Palatine Collection in the Palazzo Pitti, another renowned Florentine art museum. While on his way to the train station—next stop the glories of Venice—he first noticed his stalker. Neal didn’t know if he should feel alarmed or flattered.

What Neal should have felt was apprehensive when Peter Burke popped up yet again in the thick of a Venetian carabinieri posse chasing him across the Rialto Bridge. “What the hell?” Neal thought to himself. The man certainly had chutzpah. He was an FBI drone with absolutely no jurisdiction in Italy, so maybe Burke had traveled on his own dime to get in on the action. Now _that_ was flattering, so Neal flashed the agent a dazzling smile as he leapt off the bridge in the nick of time onto a speeding vaporetto piloted by a goateed and obviously agitated Mozzie.

“You’re cutting things a bit too close, Neal,” Mozzie later ranted as they motored across Lake Maggiore in a sleek speedboat to reach Lugano, Switzerland and relative safety. Later, comfortably ensconced in a clandestine chalet in the Alps, Mozzie felt the need to belabor the point. “Congratulations, mon frère, now you’ve managed to have law enforcement agencies on both sides of the pond working in tandem to take you down. I hope you’re happy now?”

Neal didn’t respond because he was absorbed in something on his laptop. “Neal? Neal! Are you even listening to me,” Mozzie shouted.

“Yes, I hear you, Moz,” Neal finally answered irritably. “Your voice is echoing off the mountains. Just relax and let me have a bit of fun indulging in my new hobby. I’ve been researching ‘Burke the Jerk’ and I think I may have found an anomaly in the force field. This guy may actually be an honest, by-the-book cop.”

Mozzie went to stand behind Neal and gaze impassively at Burke’s FBI photo. “There are no such things as honest cops, Neal. They don’t exist and are merely fictional unicorns.”

“I think you may be wrong, Moz. Everything that I could uncover seems to hold up to the most intense scrutiny. Burke is a white bread, bona fide straight shooter, and that just makes the concept of thwarting him so much more intoxicating. I intend to keep his focus squarely on me.”

Mozzie sighed in exasperation. “If you keep poking a stick at that tenacious old bloodhound, he might bite you in the butt the minute your back in turned.”

When Neal ignored that comment, the little bald man sighed again. “I think this is all about unresolved Daddy issues, Neal. If you feel the need for some discipline from a father, I’m sure you could dig up any number of middle-aged men who would love to bend you over their knees and spank that silly ass of yours.”

Neal paid no attention to his pontificating friend. He was on a mission to tweak Peter Burke. He sent little postcards with personal notes to the Federal Agent, and, when that wasn’t enough to scratch the itch, Neal called him at odd hours during the night to pluck his nerves. “Did I wake you? Oh, right, I didn’t consider the time difference. I’m so sorry and please give my apologies to your wife for the clumsy and thoughtless interruption of her sleep.”

Agent Burke—Peter—always took Neal’s calls, most likely because the dedicated cop was valiantly trying to stretch the time so that a fugitive’s location could be pinpointed. After a bit, even that clumsy maneuver stopped because Peter had to know it was useless to try. Neal would only be found if he wanted to be found, so their conversations became more chatty and familiar. Neal began calling when he was happy, when he was bored, and, perhaps, most poignantly, when he was depressed. Trying unsuccessfully to win back the love of your life could make a guy feel down. Although Neal never laid out his problem in so many words, Peter was smart and figured it out. He finally decided to put an end to Neal’s dilemma by baiting a trap—not for Kate, but rather for the agent’s cocky but lovesick little nemesis. It worked, and somehow it was Peter Burke who now felt sad after the initial adrenalin rush of endorphins had faded. Peter had to admit, it hadn’t been quite fair in their game of _Catch Me If You Can_ , and it certainly wasn’t Peter’s finest hour.


	7. Ain't That a Kick in the Ass!

Prison for Neal was an excruciating parade of boring days and lonely nights. Mozzie had vanished, of course, and Neal suspected he may have returned to old haunts in Detroit. However, Kate had been a faithful weekly visitor promising to keep the home fires burning. Neal visualized her face nightly in his dark cell as he jerked off into his hand. It was small comfort to a lusty young man in his sexual prime. He desperately needed to feel Kate’s skin beneath his hands and taste her hot juices when she was aroused, panting, and urging him on.

Occasionally, Neal’s twisted and traitorous inner psyche would shock him with a disturbing dream sequence during sleep, an incongruous image that was pretty creepy. Instead of blue-eyed Kate, Peter Burke’s dark brown eyes would be boring into Neal at the same time that his hard dick would be reaming a hole into the convict’s ass. The sexual coupling had none of the gentleness of Neal’s previous physical relations with Alistair. This fucking was brutal and merciless, and Neal would surge awake in a fevered sweat, unable to ignore his throbbing and painful erection. A young but confused inmate rationalized that he was suffering from an overload of pent-up testosterone and tried not to feel guilty. He didn’t want to explore any Freudian reason for this troubling dream dichotomy. He had enough problems keeping his distance from real sexual predators on this side of the bars. He certainly didn’t welcome assaults from horny, ethereal  phantoms in the night.

Finally, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. In just a few months, Neal would be able to blow this Federal pop stand and pick up where he left off, almost four years older and much, much wiser. But Fate was a nasty bitch and Neal felt as if he was a jilted bride left waiting at the altar because Kate took another powder. Neal had to believe she had a good reason, or, more unsettling, maybe even a reason not of her own choosing. A harried lover let his worried mind go crazy with every possible doom and gloom scenario. He knew he couldn’t just sit on his hands and do nothing, so he brazenly walked out of prison one afternoon wearing a guard’s uniform.

Neal knew exactly where to go, but found the cupboard bare except for a forlorn empty wine bottle. What was he supposed to think? Was it really over when Neal was so close to snaring the brass ring? It made absolutely no sense, but, unfortunately, Neal found he was going to have another four years to figure it out. He made a half-hearted plea to Peter Burke to take him on, and the young felon felt like a teenager begging for the keys to the family sedan because he had a hot date for the prom. In his heart of hearts, Neal doubted it would ever happen. Peter Burke was a smart man and he had to have realized there was a motive behind Neal’s overture. He certainly wouldn’t be foolish enough to give Neal any leeway in his search for a lost love.

What Neal failed to take into account was Peter Burke’s need and longing. His wife recognized the signs the minute Peter had come home and tried to turn it all into a ridiculous joke. Elizabeth looked at her husband and gave him a perceptive, wifely smile. “You know you’re tempted to get him out,” she said smugly. “You’ve just been going through the motions for the last four years outwitting stupid, stupid criminals who can’t even hold a candle to the brilliance of Neal Caffrey. You crave the intellectual stimulation of your game with him, and everything else is just second-rate and dull. Why would you want to put the brakes on an exciting new adventure with him by your side?”

“Because he has an agenda,” Peter had argued. “He wants to find that girlfriend of his—again!” Peter was frustrated. “He wants to use me, El, and it’s not to rehabilitate him and help him change his ways. The damn kid has so much potential and he’s squandering it all for what he thinks is love.”

“So, he’s a romantic,” Elizabeth had said sensibly. “Would you rather that he was a soulless, coldblooded psychopath?”

“I’d rather he was a law-abiding, level-headed citizen,” Peter groused.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” El teased.

“Do you think I’m dull because I adhere to the law?” Peter asked.

“Of course not, Sweetie,” his wife soothed her husband’s ruffled feathers. “But it might be fun to see you raring to take on the world again with a very handsome young man by your side. I could get used to that vision,” El said dreamily.

“Sometimes you scare me, El,” Peter said in dread.

~~~~~~~~~~

So, Peter dared to take the plunge just to save face with his wife. She was so way off base with her psychological reasoning. This was simply a trial arrangement that better pan out for the young convict or he was facing another ride upstate to Ossining. A stern Peter set the ground rules as soon as he and Neal had reentered the city and he dropped the paroled convict off at a rundown, fleabag motel. Neal needed a reality check, and this was as real as Peter could make it. The FBI Agent needed to be in control and in the driver’s seat from the get-go.

~~~~~~~~~~

Well, Neal had been granted what he had asked for, so now he just had to make it work. It was hard to be upbeat and positive when he was starting from a place that was far below ground zero. Even the youth hostel had been upscale compared to this hovel. But things began to look promising when he met a sophisticated widow in a thrift store. His con man skills might be a bit rusty, but he was sure he could pull this off with his endearing boyish charm.

June Ellington seem to take the bait, allowing him into her grand home and offering her husband’s vintage wardrobe like a wonderous gift. Neal knew he had found an easy mark until she smiled at him slyly over tea that afternoon.

“You don’t have to try so hard, Darling. The upstairs space is yours if you want it,” June assured him.

“You are a very kind and gracious lady,” Neal said while giving her an _aw, shucks, ma’am_ coy smile.

June actually tilted her head back and laughed. “Well, you certainly _are_ very good, Neal,” she assured him, “and I can now appreciate how you came by your rather spectacular reputation among the Lonely Widows Social Set. One of my very good friends actually has a framed picture of you on her night table, and another still carries a well-worn photo of you in her wallet. You forever changed them, Darling, and gave them a new lease on life, so let me say, _Tres bien!_ ”

“That was a long time ago,” Neal shot June a distressed look, embarrassed at being exposed as a fraud and having his past laid bare.

“Please don’t fret, Darling, your secret is safe with me,” the knowledgeable woman said breezily. “But face facts, young man, you’ve still got the expertise. Don’t deny your assets in that particular arena. I think it was lovely that you performed a public service for the Medicare set who are usually denigrated as shallow, senile creatures who should be put out to pasture. You made them realize that not only wisdom comes with age, but desire is still alive and well, even if it is a bit dormant.”

“I wasn’t trying to take advantage of them,” Neal tried to defend himself.

“Of course you weren’t,” June agreed. “I think you had the best of intentions. Putting a smile on their faces and courage in their hearts was a noble objective. Maybe it even managed to make you feel better about yourself.”

“Do you think I have low self-esteem?” Neal asked incredulously.

June gazed at her guest intently. “I think you have a deep need within you that hasn’t been met—not yet, at least. Somewhere along the way someone has failed you in some fashion, so you really cannot see your own worth. That insecurity has been the impetus behind trying out different roles during your lifetime to see if a certain persona can attain what you are desperately seeking on an unconscious level.”

“I don’t think I’m really that complicated,” Neal argued.

“Well then, I suppose we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that subject,” June smiled. “Now, I meant what I said. The loft upstairs as well as Byron’s clothes are yours if you still want them. I think we are a lot alike, Neal—con artists extraordinaire. Since I’m very comfortable and confident in my own skin, you don’t have to reassure me of my worth. I was always my husband’s equal as well as his cohort in crime.”

“You are one amazing lady who doesn’t have any trouble putting her cards on the table,” Neal said in awe.

“Oh, I may still have an ace up my sleeve somewhere,” June laughed. “But, now that we understand each other, perhaps I can be of some assistance to you in the here and now. Tell me, once again, the agent’s name who will undoubtedly come looking for you tomorrow wearing wingtips and a frown on his face. I think it may be a rather pleasant experience to jerk his chain so he doesn’t feel too complacent in his role as overseer. It’s good to keep a mark guessing and off-balance!”

~~~~~~~~~~

June’s loft became Neal’s safe haven—a place where he could be himself and not pretend. He had no secrets from June, although he suspected that she hadn’t shared all of hers. She could be mysterious and intriguing at times. Mozzie agreed wholeheartedly when he reappeared in Neal’s life.

“That lady is a real gem,” Mozzie gushed. “It’s a shame her husband isn’t still around. Did you know that he built this house with secret rooms and passageways during the time he was running an illicit gambling enterprise? That, my friend, was real moxie.”

“Yeah, June showed me all the little hidden nooks and crannies,” Neal answered. “They may come in handy someday.”

“That woman could probably astound us with just mere tidbits from her cache of chicanery,” Mozzie said approvingly. “It’s a good thing she’s on our side.”

“Yep, it’s amazing to watch her work,” Neal agreed. “She plucks Peter Burke like a Stradivarius. He knows she’s playing him, but there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“Well, speaking of _The Man_ , has he figured out your agenda yet?” Mozzie asked curiously.

“Of course he has,” Neal snorted.

“But, just like with your landlady, there’s nothing he can do about it,” Mozzie said smugly.

“He’s done this,” Neal groused as he held up his foot to display the anklet.

“That’s your doing, Neal,” Mozzie argued, “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“Because I thought you were a genius wizard who could crack it,” Neal said with a disgusted frown.

“Patience, young man. I’m working on it,” the little man said meekly.

“Well, try to work faster, Moz. I know Kate is in danger,” a worried young man pleaded.

Mozzie bit his tongue and didn’t say what was really in his head. He suspected that Kate was up to her old tricks and playing out her own scenario. She wasn’t chained up in some dark cellar. She was swanning around Grand Central Station tucking away enticing breadcrumbs for a besotted lovesick young fool to find. June was right. Neal was one hot mess of need.


	8. Just Putting It Out There

Working alongside Peter Burke had its ups and downs. Neal had to admit that it felt good to use his intellectual brilliance to prove he was the smartest person in the room. Of course, Agent Burke gleaned all the accolades when Neal handed him criminals on a silver platter, but not once did Neal get one iota of thanks. Their working relationship was one long procession of distrust and cautionary tales from Neal’s handler, making the young man feel used, abused, and under-appreciated. This evening was no different as Neal and Peter sat in a car doing surveillance on two suspected smugglers having dinner in a nearby restaurant. Neal found it hard to abide sitting still, so, of course, Peter was chastising him and pointing out his shortcomings. A lack of patience and impulse control headed the list.

“I can be very patient when a job needs to be done,” Neal argued. “Planning before implementation is important—I get that,” Neal continued.  

“I know you do,” Peter agreed. “I’ve studied enough of your alleged past capers to realize that you did your homework. Maybe there’s hope for you yet. Perhaps I can make a good agent out of you after all,” he goaded.

“You mean a _‘good’_ agent like you?” Neal said irritably.

“I caught you, didn’t I,” Peter snarked even though that really wasn’t a fair thing to say. It was more of a hypocritical rather than valid statement of fact.

“Let me ask you a question, Peter,” Neal began with a glint in his eye. “Years ago, did you just leap in and suddenly become a great and masterful Federal agent? Maybe, when you first entered government service, you would have needed a little jump-starting to attain your future star status. Perhaps someone tried to help you back then, but, unfortunately, it turned out to be a bit of bad timing,” Neal taunted.

“What are you trying to say, Neal?” Peter was now the irritated one. “Stop throwing out obscure riddles. I’m not in the mood.”

Neal narrowed his eyes and accommodated his handler with just a name. “Lawrence Randall.”

Peter looked perplexed as he quickly searched his mental memory bank trying to make a connection. Finally, the light dawned. “Randall was that sleaze bag who had his hand in every illegal enterprise on the books. He’s still up in Attica doing forty plus years for his crimes and will be an old man when he finally gets out. Somebody with a social conscience forwarded evidence of his duplicity to me, but I had to turn it over to Cybercrimes, the department where I first started out in the Agency.”

“Like I said, poor timing,” Neal said with an authoritative and smug air.

Now the enlightenment shown with awestruck brilliance on Peter Burke’s face. “ _You_ were the whistleblower!”

When all he got was a shrug from the man sitting beside him, Peter had to ask, “Why did you do that, Neal? Was he some crony of yours who double-crossed you and it was payback?”

Neal huffed out a disgusted snort, “You _would_ think that! Why am I not surprised?”

“Don’t act so offended, Buddy. It’s not beyond the scope of probability.”

“This discussion is over,” Neal decreed as he turned his face away.

“Well, before you indulge your snit, just satisfy my curiosity and tell me why you did it,” Peter said in a bit softer tone of voice.

Neal shook his head sadly, “If you must know, it was the right thing to do at the time. Lawrence Randall was a really defective piece of merchandise that needed to be removed from inventory. He hurt an innocent person that I was fond of, and that poor someone deserved more respect.”

Peter felt a bit blindsided. This admission was not what he was expecting. “Neal, I have to say, you are a mare’s nest of unfathomable contradictions. Maybe I’ll never understand you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Neal replied as he sank into his pout for the rest of the evening.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Wow,” Elizabeth Burke said in amazement after Peter told her about Neal’s confession. “You two really do have a long history. Was he even on your radar at the time?”

“No, he wasn’t,” Peter admitted, “and now I’m a little paranoid about all the stuff I didn’t know over the years. I realize that Kate’s his present agenda, but maybe she’s just the tip of the iceberg. It can be damn scary to think about what Neal is capable of when he puts his mind to something.”

“Oh, Honey, surely you must know that Neal has a good heart. If you don’t, then you’re not being truthful to yourself. Are you really afraid that he may hurt you one day?”

“Not physically,” Peter admitted, “but he could do a lot of damage in other ways. He’s like a master chess player who strategically plots his moves several steps ahead, and he always has a contingency plan ready if he has to alter the game. I really have to keep my guard up, El. I’ll never admit this to anyone except you, but maybe there will come a time when I won’t be able to keep up with him.”

“Aw, Hon, don’t doubt yourself. You’re smart and savvy, but you’re also kind and caring just like Neal. You both have soft underbellies that you hide from the world to protect yourselves. Each of you fear getting hurt, so please lighten up on the poor boy. I’m sure a genuine acceptance of who he really is will pay off in the end.”

~~~~~~~~~~

El’s words of wisdom were far from easy to implement on Peter’s end. Neal could be annoying and perverse on his good days, and when he decided to play fast and loose, it was damn frightening. Peter often felt like a tap dancing maniac when he was around his young felon. Then there were the enigmatic times when Peter really felt out in left field, like six months down the road when he and Neal were sitting side by side in the claustrophobic van. They had been listening over earphones to a bug planted in a suspected Mafia don’s office. It should have been a job for the Organized Crime boys, but since stolen artwork was involved, White Collar was taking the lead.

After two hours of hearing a ton of stuff they couldn’t use during a meeting between the capo and his henchmen, Peter threw down the headset in disgust.

“I am not a happy man right now!” Peter ranted.

Neal slid him a look that Peter found hard to interpret. “I know lots of ways that I could make you feel better,” he murmured softly.

Suddenly, Peter felt pole-axed. Surely, his handsome little con artist wasn’t propositioning him. That was just too ludicrous to contemplate, so Peter shrugged off the suspected innuendo.

“You could make me deliriously happy if you told me where your stashes of ill-gotten goods are located,” Peter said with a cynical smile quickly plastered on his face.

“Get real, Peter,” Neal chuckled. “You must know that’s never going to happen. Try again. Tell me one of your deepest, maybe darkest desires and perhaps I can grant you that wish.”

“You’re a con man, Neal, so you have no problem promising the moon because you’ll never deliver,” Peter snorted.

“Maybe I’ll surprise you,” Neal teased. “C’mon, be brave and try me.”

“Was your whole life always a steady stream of promising to make people happy while lying through your teeth?” Peter asked in disgust.

Now Neal took offense and looked angry. “I not only promised to make people happy, Peter, I really did make them feel better about themselves in ways you’re too dense to understand. And, just so you know, I felt good about making them feel strong and empowered and valued, so it was a win/win all around!”

“If you say so,” Peter mumbled, a bit surprised at what seemed to be Neal’s affronted pride.

“Yeah, I say so!” the con man had to get in the last word in the heated discussion.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you really think he was coming on to you?” Elizabeth asked Peter who, of course, had related every word to his wife about the incident.

“I’m not sure, and I’m probably being ridiculous and mistrustful. Neal’s a blatant womanizer so I must have misinterpreted his meaning,” Peter said slowly. “And then there’s Kate—the supposed love of his life. It makes the questionable gesture seem ludicrous. All I can say is that it got uncomfortable really fast.”

“Why is the concept of Neal making a pass at you so unbelievable?” El asked curiously. “You’re a handsome, appealing man, Peter, and so is Neal. Weren’t you even the least little bit tempted?”

“I love you, El,” Peter quickly added.

“I know you love me, Hon. I’d never doubt that for a moment. I guess I’d be more upset if you told me a woman had set her cap for you. But this is Neal we’re talking about, beautiful, beautiful Neal, and that congers up some very hot images in my mind.”

Peter looked shocked as he stared at his wife. “Sometimes, El, you’re as baffling as my CI.”

“That’s what keeps me interesting,” Peter’s better half smirked.

~~~~~~~~~~

Another discussion was currently taking place in Neal’s loft after he had stormed up the stairs of the mansion and slammed his door. Peter Burke was a condescending dick and Neal was disgusted with himself for letting the Suit get under his skin. He grabbed a bottle of liquor and took a hefty swig before flinging himself into a chair. The soft tap on his door came a few seconds later.

“Go away, Mozzie,” Neal growled. “I’m not up for you tonight.”

Without heeding the warning, the door slowly inched open to reveal June Ellington with a similar bottle in her hand. She sashayed over to the kitchen, pulled down two tumblers from the cupboard, and then showed her tenant the label of an expensive bottle of a Glenfiddich 1973 private vintage Scotch that Neal just happened to know went for approximately $6,000 a pop.

“Perhaps this will go down a bit smoother than your cheap variety if you’re determined to tie one on,” she said with a smirk.  

“I think that may work,” Neal agreed. “Since you’ve brought two glasses, I assume you’ll be joining me.”

“But of course, Darling,” June smiled. “One should never drink alone, especially if one is sad and depressed and wants to shut out the world and all its problems.”

“I’m not depressed, June; I’m more angry than anything,” Neal replied, although he was suddenly tired of feeling volatile.

“Do tell, young man. Consider me to be your confessor and this loft your confessional. Nothing that you tell me will ever leave this room, and you’ll find I am very non-judgmental. Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out. We are all a sum of our parts, so tell me about the making of a con man, Dear Boy.”

Somehow, Neal felt as if he could remove his armor and expose his vulnerabilities to this wise and supportive lady. She was someone he could implicitly trust, and she would surely know if he tried to be less than honest. So, as instructed, he began his story at the beginning, relating a secret life in witness protection because a father had done the unthinkable and abandoned his responsibilities. He spoke of a mother who couldn’t cope, most likely because of severe depression that should have been treated with pharmaceuticals instead of a little boy trying to make things better with bouquets of dandelions and crayon-colored pictures. So, in essence, June came to know that Neal’s mother had abandoned him, too, and it was the start of a pattern.

The drunker that Neal became, the more he was inclined to reveal his emotions. He talked of feeling impotent and alone and almost resentful of not being rescued. Time after time, as he traveled down the long road to maturity, people cast him aside and disappeared—mother, father, Vincent Adler, Kate, and even Alistair Randall had slipped away from him. It made Neal feel insubstantial, almost like a piece of tissue paper that people tossed in the trash after they found the real present inside the gift box.

“It’s the same old thing with Peter Burke,”  Neal slurred. “I’m just useful in the short term, and he’d throw me away in a second if someone better came along. It’s all about truth, justice, and the American way for that dude,” Neal giggled, now completely and utterly inebriated, “so I guess we can call him Superman. Well, I’d like to steal his big old cape and maybe put a few rips in his tights just to make him seem more human.”

June smiled sadly. She had merely been sipping her drink and was sober as a judge. “I’m really surprised that a keen student of human nature such as yourself hasn’t figured it out yet,” she began slowly. “You, Darling, have allowed yourself to get stuck in a preconceived rut that was a furrow dug during your childhood. You expect people to disappoint you and you expect people to walk away, so you put them into preconceived little slots and maybe even push them in the direction that you want them to go so that they fit the mold. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. You want to tempt Peter Burke to become just like your father—to not be a ‘good’ and honest cop, but rather one who can be led astray. You want to manipulate him so that you can put a chink in his armor just like your own father’s. That way, when he abandons you, it won’t come as a shock.”

“I certainly don’t look at Peter like a father,” Neal slurred his denial. “I mean, that’s kinda gross. Sorry, but that’s a swing and a miss, June. No hitting it outta the ballpark for you tonight. But that’s okay because I still love ya, and if I wasn’t so disgustingly drunk, I’d let you have your way with me,” Near tried to leer, but failed miserably.

“I understand, Dear,” June said soothingly. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Well, good,” Neal proclaimed before waving his finger in the air. “Besides, I gotta be true to Kate and I gotta rescue her. Yep—there’s always Kate.”

June suddenly felt a sense of sadness for this tormented young man. “Of course, Darling, there’s always Kate,” she murmured softly.


	9. The Cataclysm

There was, indeed, Kate, the damsel in distress in this story. Unfortunately, the serpentine tale of the separated star-crossed lovers ended like a Greek tragedy. There was an explosive last act in the drama that concluded on an airport tarmac, and when the curtain came down, the horrendous ensuing angst left one player on the scene almost insane with torturous grief.

Peter had hung onto a berserk Neal as the young man struggled to run into an inferno. It took all of his greater strength to subdue his partner until Neal collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He was now puddled on the cold asphalt with tears running down his face. Peter heard the wail of sirens in the distance and dragged the suffering man to his feet. Peter was not going to let an almost catatonic victim be manhandled by authorities who would have no idea of the magnitude of this debacle. He shoved Neal into his car and sped off, actually passing the first fire truck and cop car barreling to the site of the raging fire.

As Peter drove, he worriedly glanced over at a silent Neal who appeared stunned. The pale-faced man was absently picking at pieces of ash that not only covered his top coat but also stuck to his face and hair. Peter ghoulishly wondered if some of those wispy particles were Kate’s incinerated remains. There was an acrid smell of jet fuel permeating the interior of the car, so the FBI agent cracked the window, and it was then that Neal started to shiver. The tremors intensified so that Neal’s teeth actually began to chatter, and Peter recognized the onset of traumatic shock. He had to get Neal home and warmed up before his body would betray him and he would become another of tonight’s victims.

When Peter screeched to a stop at the house on Riverside Drive, it looked dark. Perhaps June was out for the evening, but, as per their agreement when a paroled felon took up residence, Peter had his own key. He almost had to carry Neal through the door and up the three flights of stairs because the traumatized man couldn’t seem to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other. The tremors had now grown to almost convulsive waves that ominously shook Neal’s limbs, and Peter knew he had to restore proper blood circulation throughout his body and brain. He pulled his patient into the bathroom and turned on the shower, and it freaked him out that Neal was so docile, allowing Peter to strip off his reeking clothes and toss them and their burnt stench into the hall. When the steam started to engulf the small space, he gently guided Neal into the tiled enclosure, but instead of remaining erect, Neal slid down the wall, listlessly leaning his head back. When Peter witnessed the eerie glazed stare in his charge’s eyes, the worried caretaker stripped down to his own underwear and stepped in to join him. He lathered a pleasantly aromatic shampoo into Neal’s hair and used a similarly scented bar of soap to cleanse and massage shaking arms and legs. The tremors hadn’t subsided even after the hot water had run out, so Peter quickly stepped from the shower, shucked his own dripping boxer shorts, and wrapped a towel around his waist. However, instead of covering Neal with a towel, he cocooned him in two blankets that he discovered folded at the foot of the large tiger oak bed.

Peter had done everything he could think to do as his mind mechanically went down his scant knowledge of emergency field medicine. He was no paramedic, so he seriously contemplated calling an ambulance. Neal was now curled up on the bed showing no signs of improvement in either his physical or mental state, but Peter tried not to panic. On impulse, he slid in beside the young man and trapped a shaking casualty of an unknown war within his own warm, supportive arms. “I’ve got you, Neal,” he repeated like a mantra. “I’m going to keep you safe.”

Peter wasn’t sure how much time had passed until the rigidity in Neal’s body began to leach away and the bed had stopped shaking. He simply felt when Neal slowly molded himself to his savior’s torso. Peter hoped that he had finally managed to drag Neal back from the edge. Eventually, he heard poignant whispered words. “I can’t feel anything, Peter. My whole body is numb, and I don’t understand why I can’t feel!”

Peter responded by letting his warm hand roam up Neal’s back to perform massaging and comforting circles. That action had dire consequences for the staid agent, reactions that were both primal and involuntary. Maybe Neal could no longer feel the parts of his body, but areas of Peter’s were far from numb. He felt his erection growing and tried to will it back into submission with little success. This was definitely not good.

Like a good husband, Peter had always told El almost everything, but he could never bring himself to guiltily confess the graphic details of the occasional erotic wet dream involving his young partner. Peter couldn’t understand this betrayal by his dream libido, and it shook him to his core. He was strictly heterosexual and deeply in love with his wife. Maybe what Peter thought was ridiculously unfathomable would have held more significance if he knew that Neal had experienced much the same phenomenon from time to time. Now the joined men were like one entity of need, Peter’s out of desire and Neal’s a result of chaotic upheaval. “Please make me feel something, Peter,” Neal pleaded with gut-wrenching pathos. “I want to feel alive instead of dead.”

Peter heard the anguish and surrendered to what fate had made inevitable. He slowly let his fingers move from Neal’s back to his groin. Now the massage was much more sensual as he aroused Neal and let their cocks nestle side by side within his grasp. He placed soft, open-mouthed kisses on the tormented man’s temple and then let them trail down Neal’s arched neck as he worked their erections up and down in tandem. Neal came quietly with a soft sigh, never opening his eyes as he finally relaxed onto the sheets. Peter quickly relieved his own tension and then lay back to stare at a sleeping face that had lost the stricken paralysis of psychological terror and agony. He wondered if Neal had even been aware of what had transpired between them, or if he would be able to recall any of these moments in the harsh light of day.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter quickly dressed as the first rays of a winter sun struggled to permeate the glass doors of Neal’s loft. Neal was still asleep and breathing normally, so Peter started to brew some coffee in the French press. He wasn’t surprised when the Marshals pounded on the door a little before seven. They shook Neal with firm hands and told him to get up and dressed because he was headed to lockup. Obviously, nobody had informed them about Neal’s clandestine deal with Garrett Fowler. All they knew was that Neal had cut his monitoring anklet, and, to them, he was a felon on the run. Peter quickly realized that the OPR caper must have been hatched discretely off the official books leaving Neal twisting in the wind. Suddenly, Peter was angry and argumentative.

“Just let it go, Peter,” Neal said halfheartedly. “You can’t always fix everything.”

And that turned out to be true, because Peter was stymied by Reese Hughes when he returned to the White Collar office to enlist his boss’s support. “Caffrey was playing his own dangerous game, and now he has to face the consequences when it all went to hell in a handbasket,” Hughes pontificated. Peter was astute enough to realize the old man was pissed at being kept out of the loop. He demanded Peter’s badge and gun pending an official Federal investigation into his agent’s involvement in the catastrophic fuck-up. So, Peter dejectedly returned home feeling powerless and morose. He related every detail to El, even the guilty embarrassing parts that had unfolded under the cover of darkness. Peter’s compassionate wife sat on their sofa with a box of tissues wiping the tears that steadily fell.

“That poor baby,” she moaned, “I can’t think of anything more horrible for him to endure. You tried to help him in the only way you knew how, Peter, so it’s not some terrible sin. I think it was kind and, hopefully, comforting for him to feel your strength and your love. I know you do love him in your own way, Hon, even if that causes you to feel weird like you were betraying me. I’ve been expecting you to recognize and validate your feelings, although I never imagined it would happen this way. It’s all just too sad, and Neal deserved so much better.”

So, Peter did strive to do everything that he could to get Neal released back into his custody. He validated information at the official hearing and explained away motives that had originated within covert Federal ranks until he was blue in the face. Eventually, it panned out. When a taciturn felon finally was allowed to return to the fold, he put on a bland face and rejected any questions about how he was holding up. He was “fine,” thank you very much. Most disturbing was that Neal either had no recollection of his sexual interactions with Peter, or he was choosing to pretend they had never happened. Peter was too much of a coward to ask for clarification.

Somehow Neal had changed, and it was quite obvious that he wasn’t “fine.” He performed his FBI job quite proficiently, but, in doing so, he was more foolhardy than ever. Peter watched, worried, and felt helpless as the con man seemed to be on a trajectory of self-destruction. In frustration, Peter made frequent visits to the loft, usually catching Neal and Mozzie deep in some nefarious project, and he suspected Neal was plotting his own revenge. However, first the determined avenger had to uncloak the real villain who had caused Kate’s death. Peter could only hope that he could unravel the mystery first.

Of course, when Neal set his mind to something, it was only a matter of time before he got the prize that he sought. Peter almost lost Neal again when the angry young man held Garrett Fowler’s life in his hands. By sheer willpower, he talked Neal down, and, for the moment, kept him safe. But that wasn’t the end of their story. It unfolded, chapter by chapter, until Peter found himself ultimately keeping Neal safe by taking the life of another. Vincent Adler, the master manipulator, was finally held accountable for Kate’s death in the most profound way. It should have been an ending to the saga, but, instead, it ushered in a whole new chapter in a story that took up volumes.

As the pages unfurled, they contained deceit, mistrust, anger, and feelings of betrayal, and that almost broke the partners into pieces. But, somehow, Neal and Peter managed to survive the almost constant fractures in their relationship. It endured in spite of the odds, at least until Peter did the unthinkable. One ominous afternoon, the by-the-book Federal agent inexplicably sent Neal into a life of exile, hopefully far away from another vindictive man. Peter had finally unmasked Philip Kramer’s duplicitous agenda, and he could only hope that Neal would run fast and hard away from the new danger that he posed.

“You miss him very much, don’t you?” Elizabeth remarked over dinner a few weeks later.

Peter sighed. How could he explain to his wife that Neal’s absence was the source of an ache like the phantom pain of a missing limb. Maybe the wise woman already knew of Peter’s torment. “You need to go and find him, Peter. He needs to know you haven’t forgotten him and that whatever you shared means something, and it probably always will.”

“So, are you sending me off on a mission of mercy, El?” Peter asked tentatively.

“Go!” she urged with passion. “Make your mission whatever it needs to be.”


	10. Paradise Lost

Of course, Neal Caffrey was a brilliant man, but then Peter Burke was no slouch in that department either. By sheer dedicated tenacity, he managed to locate Neal and Mozzie’s new hideout, and he flew halfway around the world in an effort to again keep a young man safe. Like a bloodhound following a familiar scent, he ran Neal to ground high up in the campanile of a local church. When he grabbed onto a familiar body, his hands reacted to muscle memory and began sensuously rubbing Neal’s back. Peter’s intenseness surprised both the agent and the at-large criminal, but Neal allowed the emotional reunion to continue until Peter finally held him at arm’s length.

“Neal, I’ve put you in danger,” Peter managed to get the damning words out.

“I think I put myself in the crosshairs the moment I got on that plane in New York,” Neal answered. “It’s not really your fault, Peter.” After a beat, he added, “Did you happen to notice that it was raining that day? Rain is a bad omen; just ask Hemingway.”

Peter drew a blank with that non sequitur, so he simply ignored it and continued on with his own admission. “But I’m the one who set this whole thing in motion,” Peter confessed. “I’m the one who allowed Kramer inside my head, and now he has a bounty hunter gunning for you. He said we were like the frog and the scorpion, and I bought into that ridiculous nonsense.”

Neal allowed a rueful little smile to play on his lips. “So, the duplicitous old goat likes to think he’s clever by citing an Aesop fable. Well, good for him. He’s right because you and I do possess different natures, but he’s so wrong about what’s really important. I’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you, Peter. That’s not part of my true nature, and I hope you know that.”

“I do know that,” Peter acknowledged, “but I couldn’t just stay in New York wondering where you were and if you were okay.”

Neal gave Peter an unfathomable look. “It’s hard to be abandoned and left behind by the important people in your life. Believe me—I know that better than anyone. But throwing your future away for me is not the way to go. Think of Elizabeth before you ruin the life you two have built in New York. Does she even know you’ve embarked on this crusade to save me?”

“She’s the one who insisted that I find you,” Peter informed Neal. “She loves you, Neal, as do I, and she wants me to make you understand what you mean to both of us in so many ways.”

Neal sent Peter a cryptic glance, but didn’t ask anymore questions. Finally, he offered a scenario, and wondered how his overture would be received. Maybe that would tell the real tale. “I don’t know how much time we’ll have, but I’m renting a secluded villa that looks out over the ocean. It should be a safe haven for a little while if you’d like to come and stay with me.”

“I’d really like that,” Peter breathed out, feeling that perhaps they were heading in a direction that would mend their rift, or at least, get certain things out in the open. The villa was magnificent, of course. Why wouldn’t Neal’s new lair be beautiful and luxurious? Peter accepted a glass of some tropical concoction, but placed it on a table after one sip and looked at Neal with unmistakable longing in his eyes. “Does this place have a bed?” he asked bluntly.

“Are you sure?” Neal questioned. “You have absolutely no qualms?”

“None,” Peter reassured him. “I told you—my wife sent me on a mission, and I always like to keep El happy by doing her bidding.”

Neal’s home was open and airy, and he left the glass doors flung wide around the bed to allow the warm wafting ocean breeze to softly caress their naked bodies. Two new lovers tentatively explored uncharted topography to discover erotic hot spots, but that was a short safari because their individual needs were overwhelming and insistent. Peter pushed into Neal while grasping him tight. Perhaps he thought if he dared to let go, the whole experience would evaporate into mist and he would discover it had all been a surreal dream.

Peter seemed able to take Neal to new heights of passion. The young lover would writhe and moan out his pleasure with absolutely no inhibition. Peter knew what he witnessed was real and true in every aspect, and that spurred the older man on time after time. Peter didn’t feel he needed to hold anything back because Neal seemed to revel in the rough groping and hard pummeling, his thirst for more being evident in a state of almost constant arousal. It was a wild and physically strenuous evening and night, and, just before dawn, two spent and satiated lovers fell into a light sleep.

Neal was like a cat with his hearing attuned to the slightest noise, so he was the one to first detect Mozzie’s familiar footsteps coming up the steps of the lanai just after dawn. He slipped out of bed and wrapped a sheet around his waist before intercepting the little bald man as he was peering curiously into the sleeping alcove where the smell of recent sex hung cloyingly in the air. When Mozzie saw who was snoring in Neal’s bed, his myopic eyes grew alarmingly wide.

“Far be it for me to approve or disapprove of your sexual conquests, but, damn it, Neal, did it have to be _The Suit?_ ” he sputtered indignantly.

Neal merely shrugged and repeated something he had once told Alistair Randall. “Well, Moz, the heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Sleeping with the enemy will not end well for you, mon frère,” Mozzie cautioned. “I’m sure you know that.”

“Life has taught me to live in the moment,” Neal said softly before turning to find some clothes. It seemed ludicrous to argue rhetoric with Mozzie while he was standing buck naked under a thin sheet.

Peter was now awake as well, and cast the home invader a hard look. “Are you just going to stand there like a rubbernecking voyeur, Mozzie? How about a bit of privacy?”

“Whatever,” the little distressed man harrumphed as he retreated out onto the terrace.

Strange circumstances make for strange bedfellows, and although Mozzie never physically got into bed with Peter Burke, he did consent to intellectual collusion with the agent. They had to find a solution to Neal’s problem, and eventually they hit on a palatable option. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work in the short term. Neal would still have to serve out the remaining years of his parole on the anklet under Peter’s scrutiny, but, on the plus side, he wouldn’t be heading the FBI’s list of the top ten most wanted criminals. It was a concession Neal was willing to make because there was light at the end of the tunnel. One day he would really be free, but not from the one man who loved him and who had refused to abandon him. That was another defining moment in Neal’s life.

Unfortunately, just like in a good old-fashioned soap opera, there was more adversity in this story. It loomed like a dark cloud just over the horizon. Peter and Neal really never got to construct a new relationship when they came back to New York because ominous events precluded a smooth and happy ending. Ellen Parker was mysteriously murdered and an old phantom suddenly reentered Neal’s life. Peter wasn’t happy knowing that Neal’s long-lost father was back for an overdue encore, and a suspicious FBI agent had serious gut-wrenching reservations about the guy’s motives. Neal, however, had reverted back to a needy little boy persona, and it was both distressing as well as frustrating for a protective Peter to see Neal so trustingly vulnerable. Peter’s CI seemed to resent any warning that his handler offered, and their relationship became strained once again.

Peter was right to be leery of “Greeks bearing gifts.” There was, indeed, evil lurking inside a Trojan horse, and James Bennett eventually showed his true colors and walked out of Neal’s life once again. However, before his departure, he caused Neal to emotionally shatter and Peter to take the fall for his murderous crime. Of course, just like Peter had always done, Neal tried to fix everything. That old adage—“No good deed goes unpunished”—was never more true. Neal’s solution to the problem just caused an even greater schism between the onetime lovers, and now even Elizabeth kept her distance from her husband’s good-intentioned partner. Not knowing what else to do, a hurt and resentful man fell back on old habits, donning his mask and his protective armor.


	11. A Means to an End

Neal was staunchly determined to ride out the storm, and his goal was an eventual finish line where he could be done with all the emotional drama that had defined his life for almost a decade. He was no longer a callow, insecure youth looking for validation of his worth. Now, he was a jaded and fed-up adult looking out for number one. He forced himself to abide a temporary new handler, and, out of necessity, made a pact with an old adversary named Curtis Hagan. Neal was going to do whatever it took to finally be free and unfettered. Somewhere down the line, a temporary truce was resurrected between Peter and Neal because the FBI was salivating over the prospect of taking down the elusive Pink Panthers. Neal now had the G-men exactly where he wanted them, and he made certain that he was the one driving this train rather than his handler, especially when the Feds reneged on their deal to grant him his freedom. So, either get on board, Peter, or get out of the way! The dynamic between the partners was now on a more equal footing because Neal refused to let himself be exposed or vulnerable anymore. He also wasn’t about to allow Matthew Keller to derail his plans. In fact, Neal had his own scheme in the works for the man who had been a longtime nagging thorn in his side.

Over the years, so many people had used Neal in almost every way possible before walking away and leaving him in the dust. The resentful young man decided to turn the tables. He was determined to use others in his quest for freedom, and, ultimately, he would be the one to walk away and never look back. The plan was Machiavellian in nature, brilliant and painstakingly constructed from start to finish. Neal considered it to be his greatest con, and he was a bit sorry that Mozzie would never realize how truly magnificent it was. There was but one person whom Neal felt safe taking into his confidence—his mother confessor from long ago.

June listened carefully, making a small suggestion here and there, until both co-conspirators felt the plan was flawless. “It will work, Darling,” she assured him, “as long as you make sure the timing is perfect. Once you’re safely on the other side, I’ll have people whisk you on your way to a new and better life. Thanks to my dear Byron, I have connections around the world. Pick a city or country and I’ll make it happen.” Neal chose Paris as the place for his phoenix to rise from the ashes.

Neal never desired to hear about the pathos he may have left behind. He had to harden his heart and become a new and stronger version of himself because the old Neal was dead. It seemed to be working until, one year later, June arrived in the city. Neal was actually residing in her luxury apartment on the Avenue Foch, and he happily welcomed her and delighted in seeing her sweet familiar face once again. They shared intimate dinners in tucked away little bistros and walked with arms linked along the Champs-Elysees window shopping and indulging in strong demitasse cups of French coffee. The wise woman never pushed, but on her last day in the city, she inquired softly, “Is there anything you’d like to ask me, Darling? Is there something that you would like to know?”

Neal steeled himself, but his curiosity betrayed him. “Peter and El’s baby—is it okay?”

“Everything worked out just fine, Darling. The Burkes actually sent me an announcement when little Neal was born,” she answered softly, watching intently for the young man’s reaction to the infant’s name.

“Am I supposed to feel honored or merely cynical because Peter managed to trade an old Neal for a new one?” he remarked with an edge to his voice.

“You can certainly feel any way that you choose,” June said in a nonjudgmental tone. “That’s certainly your right if it truly exemplifies how you view the gesture.”

Neal suddenly gazed at June with a guileless expression. “I think that you were the only one who ever accepted me for who I really was,” he said softly. “You never tried to change me, and you were always in my corner through thick and thin. Over the years, even Mozzie and I had our ups and downs, but you never wavered in your support, and I’ll always love you for that. You are a kind and beautiful person, June, and I was so fortunate that fate brought us together.”

June smiled fondly. “Well, I could say exactly the same, Neal. You made a sad and lonely old woman come alive again, and I’m sure you’ve increased my lifespan by a couple of decades. It was fun, wasn’t it, except when it was tragic,” she added wistfully. “I’m sorry it didn’t all turn out the way you had probably hoped.”

“It’s okay—really. It’s over and done and I’m getting on with my life,” Neal assured her.

June Ellington was indeed a wise woman. She smiled softly. “Well nothing is really over until it’s over.”

~~~~~~~~~~

After Neal’s endearing visitor had departed on her transatlantic flight back to the States, Neal loitered over coffee at Charles De-Gaulle Airport. He tried to shake off a sense of loss and melancholy. He told himself he had to snap out of it, and he returned to his silent apartment and his paints and easels. He worked long into the night, not wanting to give in to sleep because he was afraid of the dreams that might appear. Even after he returned to his job as an art restorer at the Louvre, the specter of his past continued to plague him. Feelings of longing and remorse floated up during the sleepless nights, and he staunchly tamped them back down in his psyche. He reasoned with himself over and over. He had done what he needed to do to free himself and he shouldn’t feel guilty. He had to be strong and resolute and get on with the business of living his new life. But a nagging little voice in his head kept taunting him—was he really just a con man trying to con himself?

Unfortunately, it isn’t very easy to alter what has been imprinted on one’s soul at the very dawn of an existence. Sometimes, Neal still felt like that young child who desperately wanted to please and protect, starting with his own mother. During those early days, he had shouldered responsibility and developed a sense of fealty and devotion that went unnoticed, but that earnestness was what had ultimately formed him into the person he really was beneath all the flash of a con artist’s sleight of hand. Neal Caffrey had been a front that he had shown to the world to hide his true self. It had worked for a while, and now his name was that of someone else. He began to suspect that even the new identity was merely a veneer quickly wearing thin because he just couldn’t justify hurting other people so cruelly. When he examined the past scheme that had worked like a charm, he realized that he must have had another plan simmering in his subconscious. He had hidden away every facet of that unique, masterful con in a storage locker. Now why had he done that if he truly wanted to cover his tracks and cease to exist forever?  

After a month of soul searching, Neal reached out once again to June. He apologized over and over for what he asked her to do. She, alone, knew how to contact Mozzie, and she pooh-poohed Neal’s reservations about the little bald man’s reaction. Later, as the discreet woman delicately spooled out the astounding story to a flabbergasted listener, Mozzie vacillated between joy and anger. After a half bottle of Bordeaux, he settled for extremely grateful and pleasantly mellow. He even seemed eager to be a part of the new plot, and he played it to the hilt for the Burkes. Mission accomplished, and now it was on to the City of Light. That little piece of heaven boasted the best wines in the world and they were calling his name!

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal began to fear what he had set into motion. What if the result was more rejection, or even overt hostility because of his duplicitous act? Perhaps the most ominous dread was that of being ignored—relegated to the status of a past memory fading in an old album like a sepia-toned photograph. Then one Saturday, Mozzie texted him a flight number and a time. Neal made sure to arrive early and loitered just outside the baggage claim area at the airport. He watched the escalators discharge what seemed to be a never-ending stream of new arrivals all craning their necks to anxiously scan the incoming moving belts for a sign of their luggage. Neal found that he had to turn away, and maybe he was a coward at heart. He just didn’t think he could stand any more disappointment. He stuffed cold hands into the pockets of his overcoat, and wished that he smoked so he could calm his nerves. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and steady, because this was it and what would be, would be. It was game over and he was out of moves.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice say his name almost reverently, and Neal turned slowly toward the sound to find Peter standing before him, barely an arm’s length away. Elizabeth was there as well, but somewhat off to the side with a squirming toddler in her arms. As Neal’s gaze returned to Peter’s face, he saw that the older man looked uncertain and nervous. He’s probably as spooked as I feel right now was Neal’s thought. When a timid young man forced his feet to move, that action caused Peter to finally thaw and lose his tense rigidity. With one long stride, he had Neal in his grasp and was enfolding him in a tight embrace. Peter had returned to Neal’s life, and it felt good and it felt right. A hopeful and now thankful man suddenly knew he was exactly where he belonged.


End file.
